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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24241204">The Infernal Bodyguard</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santillatron/pseuds/Santillatron'>Santillatron</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Infernal Bodyguard [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett, The Bodyguard (1992)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Canon divergence - happy ending, Cover Art, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Eventual Happy Ending, Fire, Gabriel is a Dick (Good Omens), Human AU - The Bodyguard, Humor, Lots of Freudian sauntering vaguely downward, M/M, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, More Pine than a Swedish furniture shop, Mutual Pining, Pining, Plot Mashup, References to past childhood abuse, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:08:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>152,278</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24241204</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santillatron/pseuds/Santillatron</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair Zira Fell is a popular author. Loved by everyone he meets. Well, almost everyone. Someone is trying to hurt him, and right now, he needs a bodyguard.</p><p>Anthony J. Crowley is the best, although he doesn't work with celebrities. He has three rules. He never gets too close, never stays once the job is done, and Never Gets Involved. </p><p>But this isn't a thriller. This, is a love story.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Infernal Bodyguard [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858468</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1375</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Bittersweet Good Omens, GO Human AUs, Good Omens Human AUs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Cover</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The idea struck, wouldn't go away, and so I had to write it down. Next thing I know I've written a whole novel's worth, about things I know very little about. I'm not a bodyguard, or a published author, so you'll have to file any glaring errors under 'creative licence'.</p><p>Aziraphale is called 'Alistair' in this, because I needed a more common name and 'Alistair' means 'protector of mankind', so I think it suits him.</p><p>This is a finished fic, but I'm fettling chapters as we go. </p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So just as I was finishing writing this, EReki (<a href="https://twitter.com/Ma2_Ereki/status/1256585706358444032">@Ma2_Ereki</a> on Twitter) put this up, and after I asked, kindly let me use it as a cover. It's so perfect, I love it!</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. First Impressions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Hamamelis was stunning at this time of year. Glowing in the low winter light against the evergreens, its spidery blooms in luminous shades of acid yellow all the way through to a rich burnt orange. Its scent in particular was good at catching visitors unawares as they walked past. Spicy, citrusy, warming, it really was a spectacular shrub, although some of the specimens here had been here long enough to grow into small trees. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Agnes was particularly fond of them, which is why she always came here at this time of year. RHS Wisley wasn’t far from London, and had a wonderful collection of winter and early spring flowering plants in their woodland section. The public tended to head to the other side of the garden for the Winter Walk area, so she pretty much had the place to herself, save for the odd horticulturalist in sage green, and purple volunteers helping with the maintenance.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Agnes liked the Hamamelis for their fiery appearance, their defiant habit of sending forth these chaotic firework flowers in the middle of winter, and, of course, their common name of ‘witch hazel’. People had called her a witch in the past so she felt some kinship to this bold plant. They said her ability to anticipate the right moment in the market had to be dark magic, her skill in spotting the right companies to invest in must be occult. As a result her predictions for the business landscape in the coming year were treated as prophecies, and they were usually right (even if people didn’t see it coming until it was on top of them). </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Less charitable people had also called her a nutter when she had told them she was in danger. They didn’t believe her. She couldn’t prove there was anyone trying to hurt her, it was just subtle hints, moments that others didn’t see. It had been driving her crazy, but Agnes had always had a good sense of what was to come. She didn’t know where it came from, but she had always been trusted, until now. Now she was just another woman making a fuss. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Which is why she had hired Crowley. He had taken her seriously.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And now he was kneeling on top of a very angry man, twisting one arm up behind them, while he pushed their face down into the wood-chip path. The pine chippings were so fresh that the scent was overpowering even the Sarcococca and Daphne nearby. It was almost minty in fragrance. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>There’s a chemical in pine trees they use to synthesise menthol</em>, Agnes thought as she stumbled backwards, her brain finding any excuse to escape from the reality in front of her as she stared at the knife still clamped firmly in the man’s hand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley was scanning the surrounding area for any further threats while he held down the struggling man. A horticulturalist was running over, having seen the commotion. She was already on her radio sending up the alarm but as she approached she slowed, a look of confusion crossing her face as she looked at the man on the floor. She took in Crowley’s expensive black suit, his short, burnished copper hair, his dark sunglasses and the snarl that bared teeth that were just on the unsettling side of pointy. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’re going to need police,” She said into her radio, “and quickly.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A-are you sure that’s-that’s <em>him</em>?” Agnes spluttered. The man on the floor was wearing a horticulturalist’s uniform, and it wasn’t unusual for them to be carrying knives for pruning. They wielded all sort of sharp and blunt objects designed for severing, digging, and occasionally, bashing when the winter protection was going up around the tender specimens.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yep. It’s him.” Crowley said simply. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How? How did you know!?” She asked, eyes wide in fright. Crowley looked down at the man who was jostling around, trying half-heartedly to break free. Crowley had him in what he knew was an unbreakable restrained position, but the man tried anyway. They always did. Crowley twisted the wrist in his grip so Agnes could see his fingernails. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Clean hands. No-one who works in the soil doesn’t have dirt under their fingernails. And shoes. He may have stolen the uniform, but he’s wearing his own shoes. They always forget the shoes. Everyone who works in gardens wears steel toe cap boots for safety and they can be quite expensive, not to mention heavy. Plus, this is not a pruning knife.” He explained, looking at the blade. “And I’m sure,” he glanced up at the real horticulturalist’s name tag, “that Helen here will confirm he’s not one of theirs.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s right. He doesn’t work here.” She confirmed distantly as Crowley carefully removed the knife from the attacker’s hands. Helen was accustomed to sharp objects, as evidenced by the items hanging from her tool belt. She’d never met a man who fell into that category however, and found him somewhat disconcerting. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’d better take him out the back way.” She said, gesturing towards a path that was signposted ‘No Public Access’. “And you can tell me what the hell is going on here.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There you are, my dear,” he said to the beaming woman, handing her the autographed book. “I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed it.” He returned her smile ten-fold, eyes sparkling with delight. Somehow he’d managed to keep up this glowing aura of geniality for two hours now, as he signed and dedicated book after book after book. Anathema eyed the waiting line carefully. She’d taken on the role of Alistair’s assistant a few years ago quite eagerly, but she hadn’t anticipated needing to look after him on such a personal level. She could see one of the upcoming fans looked quite jumpy. A short, round fellow who looked somewhat out of place with the rest of the queue. Maybe it was time for a short break.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alistair,” she said quietly in his ear “you’ve been here for two hours now, perhaps a moment away might do you good? Toilet break and the like?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next fan stepped eagerly forward, thrusting her well-thumbed book onto the table in front of him, scattering the cards and gifts from well-wishers as she did so. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She squealed, face contorting in horror at the mess as her face flushed in embarrassment.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not to worry my dear,” Alistair reassured her “I’ll sort it out in just a tic. Give me your book. Now what is your name?” He glanced at Anathema as he scribbled the lady’s name in the book on his knee, along with some encouraging words and a signed it with a flourish before handing it back to her with another radiant smile. He gave Anathema a slight nod and she stepped forwards. The nervous fan was the next person in line and he was looking desperate at this point. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“May I have your attention please everyone?” She shouted over the general chatter. “Mr Fell is just taking a moment to refresh his tea while we get the table back in order, but don’t worry, he’ll be back in a jiffy!” There was a general rise in noise levels, but Alistair’s readers weren’t the rioting type. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair had indeed bustled off to the back room of the bookshop (some little independent shop - he always insisted), when Anathema turned around to sort out the table. She collected up all the cards and gifts and turned towards Alistair’s publicist, Michael. She was currently talking to Gabriel’s assistant, Newton (Newt for short). Of course Gabriel hadn’t bothered coming, despite being Alistair’s editor. He rarely did, usually sending Newt in his place. Anathema was hoping Michael would see her with her arms full and help, but apparently that was beneath her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Excuse me?” Said the desperate fan. “Can I please just give you this, to give to Alistair? I can’t stay any longer but I really want him to have it!” He said. Anathema looked at him helplessly with her arms full of the other well-wishers’ gifts and cards. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Er…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll take it!” Newt said, darting over and taking the box from the fan. He managed only a half stumble this time. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh thank you!” The fan said. Anathema threw him a grateful look and they both headed for the back room.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anything to get away from that dreadful publicist.” Newt muttered at Anathema once they were out of Michael’s earshot. She chuckled. Newt might be a bit bumbling, but he had his heart in the right place she thought. He was definitely growing on her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Anathema deposited the cards and gifts on a table set up for them in the back room and turned to head back out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alistair should be back by now so I’ll head back out. Are you coming?” She asked Newt. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What? Oh, yes, um, just give me a minute to get all this in order. In case we get, you know, more.” He waved an arm at the table. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Doesn’t like crowds.</em> Anathema recalled. “Fair enough, take as long as you need.” She gave him a quick smile and headed back out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Newt sat down at the table and exhaled sharply. He liked Anathema, she seemed to just get it. He idly fiddled with the box he’d brought in. It wasn’t very big. It looked like wood, stained dark, and had an ornate gold clasp on the front. <em>Probably a fancy pen.</em> He thought. His mind wandered back to Anathema, to her beautiful long dark hair, to the way she always seemed to know what he meant even if he didn’t, to that kind smile she’d given him as she left. He didn’t realise that his fiddling fingers had now opened the clasp and were starting to flick the lid of the box slightly open and closed. He realised what he was doing when he heard the strange clicking and grinding sound the box was making. He frowned at it and opened it properly, and stared. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Oh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not a pen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He needed to get Anathema. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he returned with Alistair’s assistant and somehow also Michael the publicist in tow, they all stood around and stared at the box and at the strange, evil-looking mechanism that was inside it. There was a series of blades sat waiting to prey on the hands that opened the box, like a row of scorpions that were lining up to strike. If it had worked as intended it would have caused a great deal of damage to those unsuspecting hands. It had been intended for Alistair. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was fiddling with it, and I know I’m not supposed to, but I didn’t mean to, but I just was without thinking, and I’m sorry, and it just, sort of, jammed, and, um, what do we do now?” Newt stammered out in a rush, his voice somewhat higher than usual. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We don’t tell anyone.” Michael said firmly. “Alistair doesn’t need to know, it will only upset him. No harm has been done, so let’s just get rid of it and pretend it never happened.” She looked at Anathema and Newt with a stern expression, turned on her heels and walked back out into the shop, replacing her usual smile that never quite made it to her eyes just as she opened the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Newt put one hand out towards the nasty contraption to close the lid, but his usual bumbling nerves got the better of him and he misjudged the distance, bumping the box and causing one of the blades to shake loose and graze down his finger. He pulled his hand back quickly, looked at the blood starting to seep out of the cut and paled. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh… Oh dear…uuh…” He tried as he felt Anathema grab him by the shoulders and guide him to a chair. She quickly fetched a first aid kit, knelt down in front of him and bandaged up his finger. She was so calm, he noticed, while he was such a mess. She even looked pretty when she frowned. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry… Not good with- with blood.” He whimpered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Anathema rolled her eyes. “You got lucky. Next time try to keep your hands to yourself? Now I need to get back out there. Will you be ok for a bit on your own in here? You don’t need to come out.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Newt nodded and watched her leave. He tried not to think of the way it felt when she had held his hand so gently while she knelt in front of him, and where he might put his hands other than on himself. Then he tried not to think about actually putting his hands on himself. Must just be the shock from hurting himself. Yep, just adrenaline and nothing more. He narrowed his eyes at the box, but didn’t try to pick it up this time. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley was back at his flat. Agnes had paid him handsomely, even trying to get him to stay on, but he had done his job and it was time to move on. He didn’t like general security, he was much better when there was an immediate threat to focus his restless energy on. He’d been a bodyguard for a long time now, and knew he wasn’t cut out for just blindly following some vacuous celebrity around while they went shopping and had endless lunches. He was trained for high stress situations where a snap decision could literally make the difference between life and death, not whether you regretted what you ordered for lunch. He thrived on danger, living life perpetually on the knife edge and always thrusting forwards. Crowley had tried regular protection and got so bored he ended up causing mischief just to keep his sanity. No, his skills and training were best used when they actually had a genuine threat to life. Besides, if he hung around too long then clients worked out that his habit of being acerbic and sarcastic was just his personality, not the product of the situation they were in, and he ended up being let go regardless, so he had long ago realised it was easier to walk away than be pushed again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And now his latest mission had been completed, he was free to do as he pleased. And right now that was as little as possible. At thirty-eight he needed a bit more of a rest so he had a few days, maybe a week, of pottering around before he would get restless and put the word out that he was available again. He was good at what he did so it never took long to find another client and emergency personal protection paid well. Very well. Which meant he could afford to have an extended break if he wanted. He owned his flat in Mayfair outright, having paid off the mortgage some time ago, and even though he didn’t spend a lot of time here, he needed to have somewhere to go between jobs and he’d got used to the affluent surroundings of his assignments, although he told everyone it was an investment for his future. Or he would, if anyone ever asked. He’d chosen the top floor as he’d always liked being high up. As close to the sky as possible, remembering the feeling of calm, of freedom as he swooped and dived through the clouds. He was out on his balcony, feeling the wind rushing through his hair, blowing out all of the residual tension left over from the last assignment, when the phone rang. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hello?” He answered. It never paid to give too much away up front. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is this Mr Crowley? Mr Anthony Crowley?” A female voice replied, sounding hopeful and efficient. <em>Probably a PA</em> he thought. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yep.” He said, popping the ‘p’. “What do you need?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wonderful. Could we meet? I think we need your services.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley looked back into his flat at the pile of takeaway containers he’d accumulated in the few days he’d had off. He didn’t normally take on a job this quickly, but he could already feel his brain coming more into focus at the thought of a new assignment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“OK, Ms…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Device, Anathema Device.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“OK Ms Device, when and where?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would tomorrow work for you? Two pm in St James’ park?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley smirked. He knew the park very well and wondered if this Ms Device knew what a popular meeting place it was for a certain type of business associate. Namely ones who liked to know that the only one who could hear them were the ducks (and the jury was still out on whether they could hear them at all).</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll bring the Schwarzbrot.” He joked. “See you tomorrow Ms Device.” He just caught her sound of confusion as he hung up. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley went back inside. It was cold on the balcony now, and with a potential client to meet tomorrow, he had some digging to do. He opened up his laptop, letting the fingerprint scanner unlock it, and got to work finding out everything he could about Anathema Device. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Anathema Device had, indeed, turned out to be a PA, but that wasn’t unusual. He often dealt with PAs at the start of an assignment. There were very few people in the world that could afford his services that didn’t have PAs. Anathema, it turned out, was PA to Alistair Zira Fell, a well respected and popular author who was currently doing the rounds at book signings following the release of his latest book. Crowley didn’t usually take on high profile clients, but he had agreed to meet Ms Device so he would hear her out. At least it was a nice day, if a bit cold for an outside meeting at the end of January. The ducks didn’t seem to mind though, as long as there was a plentiful supply of bread. He tossed a couple of chunks out to some females who were being pushed out by the aggressive drakes, and noticed a figure approaching to his right. Female, about the right age, and matching the grainy images he’d been able to find. He made no motion to let he know he’d seen her, instead watching her from behind his sunglasses as she walked right past him and sat down on an empty bench. After a few minutes she got out a book and began to read. Crowley waited ten minutes and having observed no tantrums he threw out the last of his bread and sauntered over. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Afternoon.” He said, letting his shadow fall over her book. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mr Crowley. Thank you for joining me. I didn’t want to interrupt…” She said, putting her book away and gesturing towards the ducks. Crowley was surprised. It was rare for someone to work out who he was at a first meeting, and frankly, he was impressed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not to worry.” He said. “Shall we walk and talk?” He swung his arm out towards the centre of the park. He’d learned long ago that he always thought better when he was in motion. Anathema stood up and fell into step next to him. Well, as much as is possible with someone who walks as if they only have a passing acquaintance with their limbs. Crowley subtly nodded an acknowledgement to two men in dark suits sat on another bench who had been eyeing him nervously.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Friends of yours?” Anathema asked.<em> Observant too</em>, Crowley thought. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just some old acquaintances from my days in diplomatic protection. Now, tell me more about your boss.” Crowley said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Anathema looked at him sharply from the corner of her eye, but let him change the subject. “As you have probably looked up by now, I work for Alistair Fell. He’s an author and his latest book in the ‘Warlock’ series has just come out, so we’re currently touring around doing all sorts of book signings and publicity events.” She spat out the last part with evident distaste. “Alistair has his fans, like anybody in the public eye, and like the rest of them not all of his fans are quite so… fantastic. Last week we had an… incident… and I think it’s time we started taking some of the less complimentary correspondence a bit more seriously. Which is where you come in. This is a delicate situation Mr Crowley, and I’m told you are the best. Although I’ll admit, you’re not quite what I was expecting when I heard about your previous jobs.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Unexpected can be used as a tactical advantage Ms Device, if you know what you’re doing. I’m afraid I don’t normally take high profile clients these days though. The celebrity lifestyle is not for me, so thank you for your call, but you’ll have to find someone better suited to his lifestyle.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Anathema snorted at this. “He’s not a pop star Mr Crowley, he’s not out all hours drinking and partying, he mostly hides himself away in his library in the evening with a glass of fancy gin. If you meet him, you’ll see he’s not your usual celebrity type. And I do hope you meet him Mr Crowley, because you are exactly what we need. The fees won’t be a problem.” She turned to him and stopped. “Frankly Mr Crowley, we’re all scared. Alis- Mr Fell won’t cause you any hassle, I promise.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’ll be £3000 a week.” Crowley said, aiming high. It usually put clients off. He would have said no outright, but he liked Anathema. She seemed sensible so he could be fairly sure that if she thought there was a threat, then it was a credible one. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Done. Do you need the address, or have you already found it?” She asked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley hid his surprise at the lack of negotiation with a smirk. “I’ll see you there tomorrow.” He said, and strode off lazily waiving one hand over his head. “Ciao!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Anathema rolled her eyes. Mr Crowley was unconventional, but she knew Alistair wouldn’t cope with a standard off-the-shelf security expert. She just had to hope he would be willing when they met tomorrow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next day Crowley arrived on foot at Alistair Fell’s house, bundled up from the crisp winter weather in a large, black, woollen coat and black leather gloves. He wore a cashmere scarf that was black with a thin line of red down one edge. He’d never bothered owning a car as living in London meant he could get around very easily, and most of his time was spent with clients where he travelled with them. As he arrived he reflected that ‘house’ applied the property in front of him about as much as ‘boat’ applies to a luxury yacht. It was a mansion. And it was in Soho. Actually it was probably a decent chunk of this corner of Soho, overlooking Soho Square Gardens to the West. Suddenly £3000 a week didn’t sound quite so much. He pressed the intercom button and it crackled into life and garbled something at him, presumably asking him who he was. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jonathan Crawly, to see Mr Fell. Ms Device invited me.” He drawled. He got back another garbled response. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crawly, Jonathan. Do you have a duck in there? Are its ears working? Wait, do they even have ears?” Apparently this must have been a satisfactory response, as the gates swung open and he walked through. There was a modest front garden (this was still London, after all) with a path that led up to a maroon front door, and he could see a gated driveway with a garage to the right. The house was detached, and looked Victorian in construction, possibly slightly older, but it had clearly had some work done at some point. He could see a stone balcony to the front on the second floor, overlooking the park, and not a single camera in sight. Crowley waited by the gate but nobody appeared. After a while he wandered over to the garage. The door was open and inside… well, inside was the most seductive piece of automotive design he had ever seen. It was a classic 1934 Bentley, black with dark grey down the side of the engine, and the iconic suicide doors. The lights stood proudly on their own at the front and the whole thing was gleaming, the black paint still unfaded and so deep it felt like you would find galaxies in it if you looked hard enough. It seemed as if it was moving even whilst stationary and Crowley could almost feel the wind in his hair as he imagined zooming around country lanes it in. It was an absolute dream of a car from its winged ‘B’ hood ornament, to its tartan strapped bicycle rack. Presumably for the vintage dutch bike leaning against the wall on the other side of the garage with ‘Phaeton’ written on it. Crowley strolled leisurely over to the car, hips swaying while he removed a glove, and reached out to stroke a hand along its sublime curves. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oi!” The shout startled Crowley, but with his sunglasses on you’d never have known. Years of training meant he was very, very good at hiding his emotions when he needed to. All except for his eyes, but that’s why he always wore expensive designer sunglasses. That and it looked stylish. He turned towards the source of the shout and saw a young woman in overalls wiping her hands on a cloth, striding towards him with purpose. He slouched as she approached, removing the other glove and stashing them in his coat pockets. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve just finished polishing that so keep your grubby fingers off it. Who are you anyway?” She asked. Crowley evaluated her from behind his sunglasses. Fairly young, bold, judging by her response to him. Her overalls looked well-used so she was used to hard work. Shoes though, shoes were slim and sporty and bright red. Not a mechanic’s shoes, those were driving shoes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“James Crawly, to see Mr Fell. Just admiring this exquisite machine. You the chauffeur?” She looked at him slightly surprised, as if she wasn’t used to people getting her profession right. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes. Yes I am.” She narrowed her eyes at him again and folded her arms over her chest. “And I’m willing to bet I’m a better driver than you are, before you try any silly comments.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley liked her. “Wouldn’t dream of it miss…?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pepper. And don’t call me ‘miss’.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wouldn’t dream of it Pepper. If I do drive it falls into the ‘evasive tactics’ category, or occasionally ‘aggressive manoeuvres’. Both of which are borderline legal at the best of times, and neither of which are recommended in the centre of a city, so I’m in no position to mansplain your job to you.” He grinned at her, all teeth and smug satisfaction. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmph. Well I doubt very much you’ll get any ‘aggressive manoeuvres’ out of this old girl. Might look like a fish, but she steers like a cow.” Was her grumbled response, although he felt like he’d passed her test. “Alistair’s in the house. Probably reading. Find Anathema first, and don’t go in the kitchen without her. Tracy will be in there.” She said sternly, gesturing towards the door that linked the garage to the main house. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I assure you Tracy will be perfectly safe with me Pepper.” Crowley said with a smirk as he turned towards the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pepper snorted out a laugh. “Dressed like that it’s you I’m more worried about!” She laughed as she nodded towards his skin-tight black jeans before turning back towards the car. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You missed a spot.” He said brightly, and strode off through the door before Pepper could respond. <em>So that’s Pepper, Anathema and Tracy</em>, he thought. <em>All women… </em>Crowley started to wonder what sort of man surrounded himself with women in this fashion. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The garage door led through to a corridor with a small bathroom off one side and a utility room off the other. At the other end of the corridor was the entrance hall. It had a grand sweeping staircase down the right hand side with rolled oak bannisters and a pale carpet held back by rods. The hall continued underneath the sweeping stairs to the rooms beyond. The entrance hall itself had oak paneling and a tiled floor with a geometric pattern of whites and pale blue. Once again, it was entirely devoid of life, and eerily quiet. He had removed his coat, hanging it over his arm and with the other hand was spending a few moments adjusting his artfully tousled hair in the large mirror by the front door, when he heard footsteps approaching. From down the hall came a severe looking middle aged woman, with her hair piled high on her head in a style reminiscent of a mohawk. She wore a suit and oxfords, which clicked down the tiled hallway as she walked in. Her face was buried in her phone, typing as she walked. She was concentrating so much she nearly walked straight into Crowley, only realising there was anyone there when he tapped his snakeskin boot on the tiles to alert her. As soon as she looked up to see him she gave him a brief businesslike once-over and her face broke out into the least genuine smile Crowley had ever seen. Forget reaching her eyes, this smile didn’t even seem to reach the corners of her mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why hello! I’m so sorry I wasn’t made aware of your arrival. How can I help you Mr…?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crawly. Jacob Crawly.” He supplied, returning an equally insincere smile. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mr Crawly! I’m Michael, Alis- Mr Fell’s publicist. Are you here for an interview? Mr Fell is just in his study but I’m sure he’ll be happy to come down and chat with you. What organisation did you say you were with?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley was raking his brains thinking of a literary magazine when Anathema stepped out of the doorway on the opposite side of the hall. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anathema!” Michael trilled. “Jacob Crawly is here for an interview but I don’t have him scheduled in my calendar. Do try to remember to inform me when you set these up please, it makes it easier all round. Now,” She turned back to Crowley “Can I take your coat? Would you like some tea? We have quite the selection. We can have the interview in the front room. Anathema, see to some tea would you?” Michael put a hand out to take his coat, but he stood still and just looked towards Anathema. She had a thoughtful smirk on her face so he raised one eyebrow over his sunglasses at her. Michael dithered between them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jacob?” Anathema asked finally before rolling her eyes and turning to Michael. “It’s alright Michael, you can stand down. This is <em>Anthony Crowley</em>. The personal security specialist we talked about.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Michael’s arm dropped and her expression turned hard. “I see.” She said coldly. Crowley just shrugged. He stuck a hand out inviting her to shake it. “Call me ‘Crowley’.” He tried, but Michael simply pursed her lips, turned smartly on her heels and clicked away over the tiles with her nose in the air. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t worry about her,” Anathema said “She just doesn’t like getting things wrong. She’ll come around at some point. Either that or she’ll come after you ruthlessly.” She shrugged, then took his coat and scarf and hung them in a cupboard by the door. “Come on, Alistair’s up here.” She said as she turned and headed for the stairs. Crowley followed quietly. Michael’s demeanour was incongruous with the opinion he was forming of the master of the house, as was the way everyone kept referring to him by his first name but correcting to the more formal address. Crowley was becoming curious. He inspected the art on the walls as he followed Anathema up the stairs. Now Crowley liked art. He had become a bit of a connoisseur over the years and he was rather proud of the Da Vinci sketch he had in his own home. It was an early practice piece for the Mona Lisa and it had cost him a considerable amount of money. However, the art on these walls made it look like pocket change. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Holy shit, is that a Constable?!” Crowley said, pointing to a medium sized painting on the far wall. It’s characteristic pastoral scene was dwarfed by the expanse of exquisite, ethereal cloud-filled sky above it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alistair likes the Romantic masters” Anathema said without stopping. “He has quite a few original pieces. Come on, he’s in the bookshop.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On the second floor was a landing that wrapped around the stairwell. There were several doorways, and Anathema led them through the nearest one. Crowley was not prepared for what he saw behind that door. The entire second floor of the house turned out to be a vast library. Large openings had been made in the walls that separated the original rooms to open up the entire space, and every wall was covered in shelves upon shelves of books, with more shelving units built into the centre. The ceilings were high but heavy curtains surrounded the large windows reducing the light and making the space feel surprisingly cosy. A cursory glance showed no obvious filing method, but each and every book appeared well cared for. There were plush, chintzy armchairs dotted around, each with it’s own lamp and table next to it, and in one corner a nut-brown chesterfield sofa with a tartan throw over it, accompanied by a low coffee table. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bookshops in my experience are usually a bit more public. This is a library.” Crowley said flatly, turning to Anathema.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh! Oh sorry, yes, Alistair used to own a bookshop many years ago, until he realised just how much he hated selling the books, so he shut the shop and moved everything here. He still refers to it as ‘the bookshop’ though, so, so do we.” She said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley nodded and made a small grunt of understanding. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He must be on the other side. I did tell him you were coming, but he tends to get caught up when he’s reading.” She said, gesturing for him to follow. Anathema walked briskly through the library/bookshop, checking each corner as they moved between the rooms. Crowley meandered after her, noting the sheer quantity of knick-knacks and paraphernalia that punctuated the books on the shelves. There was a bit of a theme.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally they ended up in a room at the back of the house, overlooking the small back garden. This room had a sizeable patch of wall devoid of bookshelf. In its place was a cast iron fireplace, and hung above it a large painting depicting a man and a woman lounging under a tree with a cat, and a goat off to one side. Both naked, although the woman was demurely turned away from the viewer with her head twisted coquettishly back at the man, and the man had some tastefully draped greenery just about preserving his modesty. In the centre of the room was a large table laid with tea and biscuits, and sat at the table was a vaguely middle aged man, dressed in keeping with the age of the house in a pale jacket and velvet waistcoat that looked as though it had seen a lot of wear. He managed to avoid the usual stiff demeanour that typified the gentlemen of that era, however, and instead his broad shoulders and rounded torso merely made him look at ease. Crowley wondered if he felt as soft as he looked, then abruptly banished that thought. <em>Alistair, his name is Alistair,</em> thought Crowley, was looking down at a book on the table in front of him with a slight frown, strikingly pink lips pressed together in concentration and one hand holding a cup of tea that had paused halfway to his mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Anathema coughed in the universal language of polite interruption, and the man looked up, saw the two of them standing there and smiled. It was a genuine smile as well, almost blinding in its sincerity. It didn’t help that the morning winter sun was low, so it streamed through the window and caught his pale blond hair from behind making it glow around his softly rounded face as if he wore a halo. Crowley couldn’t help but stare. The man put down his cup, stood up and walked around the table towards them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>He’s wearing a bow-tie, </em>thought Crowley.<em> A tartan bow-tie that he’s wearing to just read at home.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stuck his hand out towards Crowley, inviting him to shake it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You must be the infamous Mr Crowley! I’m Alistair Fell, but everyone calls me Alistair. It’s a pleasure to meet you!” His words were carefully enunciated, his tone brisk, implying a formal education. The smile on his face made it clear that he absolutely meant his sentiment. Crowley wasn’t used to people being pleased to see him. Relieved, yes - he tended to meet people when they were scared and needed help, but pleasure was a novelty. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley took his hand and shook it. Alistair’s hand was soft, but hinted at an underlying strength that he was well used to restraining.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Likewise.” Crowley drawled, allowing his face to be taken over by a lazy grin. Alistair’s face flickered as his eyes darted down the length of Crowley, taking this newcomer in with his sunglasses, form-fitting black clothes and insouciant slouch, all sharp angles and elbows, before peeling away from the handshake. Alistair’s mouth gave the barest hint of curling up on one side as Crowley returned the hand to his pocket, deliberately not dwelling on the way it felt unusually empty having only held Alistair’s for a moment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the months to come, Crowley would pinpoint this moment as where it all started to go wrong. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The painting described is 'The Fall of Man' by Hendrick Goltzius (https://www.nga.gov/collection/art-object-page.95659.html)</p><p>So! What do you think? I was thinking weekly updates yeah?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Take another look</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the love you lovely people!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So Mr Crowley, I hear you are a security expert?” Alistair said. “I must say, you’re not what I was expecting. Don’t bodyguards usually look, well…” Alistair let his eyes openly wander over Crowley’s lean frame “a bit tougher?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley grinned his most dangerous grin. “This is my disguise.” He said. Alistair raised one, skeptical eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quite. Well, Anathema here tells me we need you, but I’m afraid she may have caused you a wasted trip. I’m quite safe with Uriel.” He gestured to a chair in the corner in which sat yet another woman. She waved slowly at Crowley, her smooth dark skin contrasting with the pale suit she wore. Her expression spoke of supreme confidence and superiority as she appraised him with her eyes, and she had a stillness about her that promised danger, like a praying mantis waiting to strike. There would be no genuine smiles here it seemed. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Bodyguard or handler?</em> Crowley thought. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crowley… Crowley… Why have I heard that name?” Uriel mused. She spoke slowly, her voice pitched low. It was a classic technique that Crowley knew was meant to command respect. Pity it didn’t work on him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Could be because I’ve never lost a client whilst on duty.” He said, matching her stare from behind his sunglasses. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, no, I know… Weren’t you the one who was supposed to be protecting Prime Minister Raphael Azaria the day he got shot?” She purred, eyes glinting with malice. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wasn’t there that day. Had to hand over to someone who was clearly more <em>amateur</em> than me.” Crowley answered pointedly, which earned him a scowl. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair glanced from Crowley to Uriel and back. “Mr Crowley, the only thing I need protection from is myself, and Uriel here sees to that. She’s really rather good at stopping me overindulging. I seem to be able to resist everything except temptation!” Alistair quipped, clasping his hands together as he rocked forward onto his toes briefly, clearly pleased at his little tension-breaking joke. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wilde.” Crowley said lightly, a small grin of satisfaction creeping onto his face. “And it’s just ‘Crowley’.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair lit up even more that before, his hands spreading as wide as the elbows clamped to his sides would let them. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh! You read! How wonderful!” He said.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nope.” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’. He was being obnoxious and he knew it, but he had no interest in clients who didn’t want his services, despite what their PAs said. And while Mr Fell was certainly intriguing in a way that Crowley would examine later, his services were sought after enough that he didn’t need to take on clients that he didn’t want to. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair’s face froze awkwardly as he tried to work out how to respond to Crowley’s abrupt demeanour. He settled for a polite smile, drawing his hands back over his torso protectively. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah. Well. Thank you for coming Mr Crowley, but I’m sure we needn’t take up any more of your time here. Anathema can see you out, and reimburse you for your trip.” Alistair turned back to the table, and Crowley turned to the nearest door, just catching Anathema’s angry glare at Alistair as he turned. She followed Crowley out onto the landing, but remained silent until they were back downstairs in the hallway. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crowley, there’s something else you should see before you walk away. It’s about the incident I mentioned. Please, let me show you before you make your decision.” She said. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley shrugged and made no move to leave, so she led him into an office off the main entrance hall. Michael was already there, sat at one of the two desks that occupied the space. Michael’s desk was clean, ruthlessly neat, faced the only window, and had a very expensive desktop computer sat on it which was currently switched off while she tapped away at her phone with her feet up on the desk. She barely glanced up as they entered. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley surmised the other desk next to the door must belong to Anathema, and it was the very antithesis of Michael’s orderly space. It was a chaotic jumble of papers and pens, with a large leather bound diary and a sleek laptop poking out of the piles. A full Rolodex was teetering precariously on one edge of the overflowing desk and there were at least two empty tea cups that Crowley could see, and numerous notes stuck to the wall above it. Crowley slouched against the doorframe as she rifled through the piles until she pulled out a thin card folder. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Here.” She said, thrusting the folder to him. “This is the last two month’s worth of hate mail. You should see the things people write! It’s awful!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley opened the flap on the folder and pulled out a stack of papers of varying colours and sizes. There were some printed emails, the rest traditional mail - a few with the clichéd cut out newspaper type. He put the empty folder on the corner of the desk and flipped through the letters. He was mildly surprised that someone that seemed so benign could garner this much ill will. The reaction must have shown on his face as Anathema gave him the answer to his unspoken question. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You should read his books. People don’t like what he does with his characters. Some people see things in his storylines and the relationships he writes about that they deem immoral, and seem to have no hesitation in telling him so.” She said sadly. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley flipped through the papers again, noting this time that there was a definite theme running through them. He scowled. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And what does Alistair think of these?” He asked. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Michael spoke before Anathema could. “He doesn’t know.” She said firmly. “And we’re not going to tell him. It would only upset him, and what would that achieve? We’re in the middle of a book launch media campaign, we need him focused.” Anathema looked torn. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley looked at her over his sunglasses. “And what else doesn’t he know about?” He asked carefully. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” she glanced at Michael nervously “we had a couple of break-ins recently. Nothing was stolen, but one left one of those letters, and the other left a mangled doll made up to look like him. We removed it before he saw it. And…” Anathema paused, looking at Michael again, who was scowling back at her. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Go on…” Crowley encouraged.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She dragged her head back round to face him. “And we had a malicious device given to him at a book signing recently. Fortunately Newt got to it first and as usual managed to break it, so it never fulfilled its intended purpose. It would have caused some serious harm if it had.” She said gravely. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley could feel his interest piquing. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And what was its intended purpose?” He asked, filing the name 'Newt' away for later. If there would be a later. He was beginning to suspect there would be, despite all his normal rules. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Anathema opened a drawer and pulled out a small wooden box. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“See for yourself.” She said as she put it down on top of the folder on the corner of her desk. She carefully opened the lid to reveal the contents. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley looked down at the array of blades all poised to spring out and shred the hands of whoever had opened the box. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The threat is escalating Mr Cr- Crowley, and frankly we’re all scared. This is our home too.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley glanced at Michael who was resolutely facing the other way, and sat very still. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please.” Anathema said. “We need you. Please help us.” Crowley made the mistake of looking at her face. At her wide, pleading eyes, her pale complexion from stress-filled nights, her desperate, frightened expression. That expression had got him into trouble more times than he cared to remember.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He admitted defeat with a groan. “Fine! But on one condition!” He said quickly as Anathema looked about to cry with relief. “You tell him about this. I can’t protect someone who doesn’t understand what the risks are.” He said pointing at the evil box.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Anathema looked at Michael who was glaring at the box. Michael abruptly stood up and walked out of the room, brushing past Crowley in the doorway. She stopped just past him and looked back at the two of them. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well then? Let’s get on with it.” She snapped.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley swung around to follow as Anathema gathered up the letters, stuffing them back into the folder before carefully closing and picking up the box and following as well. When they reentered the library Uriel had moved to the table and was leisurely eating a biscuit as she listened to Alistair voicing his opinion on the book’s plot to her. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What I don’t understand is why she- Oh! Hello again.” He said, looking up as they walked in. “Back so soon? Did you need me to sign something?” He asked. The general politeness was there, albeit with a thin-lipped expression, but the warm, glowing smile was absent this time. Crowley felt cheated somehow, and he wasn't quite sure why. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No. We need you to read something.” Michael said, and stepped aside so Anathema could gingerly place the folder down in front of him. He opened it up with evident curiosity, that turned to surprise, horror, and finally despondency as he read through the letters. Uriel glared at Crowley with open hostility as he hung back, once again slouching in the doorway. Crowley watched with a flicker of admiration as Alistair took a deep breath and seemed to swallow his evident upset and fear, replacing it with a disassociated, cold, calm demeanour. It was a skill Crowley had taken years to learn, and never quite mastered. Hence his propensity for hiding his overly-expressive eyes behind sunglasses. He watched as the arguments began, and Uriel was drawn into it. Crowley let it all wash over him as he looked around the library and towards the front of the house. He could see a set of French doors and what looked like the balcony through them. While everyone else was distracted he quietly slipped away, opened the doors and stepped out, leaning against the light stone balustrade and looking down at the front of the house. Not a single camera could be seen. Not even an alarm system it appeared. The park over the road allowed for any number of hiding spots and escape routes. After a while he heard the voices inside quieten down, the door behind him open again and light footsteps approach. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well that went down like a lead balloon.” He said as the delicate footsteps drew level with him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry, um, what?” Came Alistair’s voice. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley felt his heart rate jump for a moment. He turned to Alistair. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh... thought you were Anathema. Very light on your feet. I said ‘well that went down like a lead balloon.’” Crowley took the time to study Alistair from behind his sunglasses. The man was staring out into the park across the road. He was no longer calm, instead nervously fiddling with a golden signet ring on the little finger of his right hand while his eyebrows did their best to huddle together. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, well, it is a bit of a shock to find out my trusted staff have been keeping things from me. Although I’m not sure I actually blame them now I know what it was. That box…” He shuddered. “Well, anyway it appears that I may need your services after all… uh…” He looked pained. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just Crowley.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“…Crowley. Yes. Thank you. Jonathan, James, Jacob or Anthony?” Alistair said curiously, looking sideways at Crowley with one eyebrow now raised. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley smirked. <em>Streak of bastard under that softness. Noted.</em> “Anthony. Just needed to see how easy it was to get to you.” He said gently. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair’s face fell. “Oh. I suppose it was rather easy to get in then?” He was obviously hoping to hear otherwise, but Crowley needed to be honest with him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘Fraid so. But don’t worry. I can change that.” He said, watching Alistair’s face light up again. It was as if he physically felt the smile, the way his chest warmed at it. Crowley wondered if Alistair knew he had this effect on the people around him, and if he’d ever used it to his advantage. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh! Oh would you? Oh, thank you Crowley. Thank you so much.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley coughed as the warmth turned to a weird tension. He knew he was terrible for giving in to big pleading eyes, but he’d never reacted this way to the expression that Alistair was giving him. He wondered if he was getting ill, it would be the worst timing, but nothing he couldn’t handle. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So we have an arrangement then?” Crowley asked. He needed to make sure Alistair was definite before he threw himself into this one. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“An arrangement, yes I suppose so. Insofar as I have someone apparently trying to hurt me, and you will arrange for that not to happen.” Alistair replied. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right, well, yes, I’ll, um, I’ll just go and make the arrangements with Anathema then? For the home security system and…” He gestured vaguely at the the front of the house. <em>Nice one Crowley. Really smooth. Really professional.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Probably best. I’m useless with technology!” Alistair said with a mirthless laugh. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley nodded and sauntered back into the house, leaving Alistair staring out across the park, twiddling his ring again. As soon as he was back in the house Michael accosted him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Happy now, are we? Did you see how upset he was? We’re supposed to be doing the interview circuit soon, and how am I going to get him to perform for interviews when he’s so wound up in fear now? It’s hard enough as it is to get him to get out there, and now I have to, what? Pass everything by you as well?!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley mostly ignored her, instead looking at Anathema, who seemed relieved, and Uriel, who was glaring great, flaming daggers at him. He grinned at her and gave a small nod which only seemed to incense her more. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m going to go and make some phone calls, and tomorrow we will be upgrading the security system.” He said, and turned towards the door. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll see you out.” Anathema said as she quickly followed, leaving Michael and Uriel sharing an angry look. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As they reached the bottom of the stairs Pepper emerged from the hallway that led to the garage wiping her hands on another bit of cloth. She had lost the dirty overalls and was now wearing a brightly coloured stripy top and denim dungarees. She’d kept the bright red shoes though. She grinned when she spotted them. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey Ana! Uriel scare him off then?” She said, jabbing her head towards Crowley. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh it takes a lot more than a menacing glare to scare me off.” He said, flashing her a sharp, toothy grin that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a snake. Pepper snorted out a little laugh at his display.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’ll be back tomorrow to upgrade the security around the house.” Anathema said as she headed over to the coat cupboard and retrieved Crowley’s coat and scarf and handed them to him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fucking finally!” Pepper said. “And maybe we can get a driveway gate that actually works! I’m so fed up of having to pull it open by hand when the sensor decides it can’t be bothered.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Duly noted. Pepper I think tomorrow you and I should have a little chat-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey! You gonna teach me some of those, how did you put it? ‘Aggressive manoeuvres’?” She jumped in excitedly, her eyes bright with excitement.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’ll be a miracle if you manage any of them in that car, but hey, we’ll see if there’s anything I can teach you. Ciao!” He called as he went out through the front door and down the path to the street. He liked Pepper. She would be a valuable ally and experience had taught him that it was always good to have the driver on side. He turned up his collar against the cold as he headed for the tube station, exposing the flash of red lining. It was only a couple of stops, but it was too cold to walk, and his favourite lunch spot was by the station anyway. He’d make all the necessary calls once he was back at his flat, return tomorrow with an army of security tech experts, and turn Fell Mansion into a fortress. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p><hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That night, Alistair sat in his private sitting room on the top floor of his house sipping a gin and tonic and trying to read. He was trying, because every few sentences his mind would bestow one of the characters with hair like a dying bonfire, or dark, round sunglasses above angular features. When one of the characters started sauntering - <em>I mean really, who walks like that</em> - he admitted that maybe stealing a glance over his shoulder at Crowley as he left the balcony hadn’t been wise, but he couldn’t help it! He’d been terrified to find out that there was so much hate directed at him, and worse, that they knew where he lived! He’d felt so helpless, so hopeless, so… vulnerable. And then Crowley had known exactly what to say and had made him feel so safe. Alistair tried to reason with himself that this was to be expected, it was Crowley’s job after all, and he’d come so highly recommended so he must be good at it. But still, Alistair found his thoughts betraying him. Surely being a hero was enough, he didn’t have to swan around looking so alluring all the time too. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Oh, this was going to be very complicated. Alistair just had to hope that they could sort out this threat soon, and with any luck before he disgraced himself. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p><hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley slept well that night. He usually did. He’d got used to being able to sleep anywhere, at any time, with all sorts going on around him. Anyone that stayed in any of the forces long enough either learnt to do it, or went mad. But tonight he had unusually vivid dreams peppered with white blond hair, tartan bow ties and gentle smiles. He woke up with a strange urge to read.<em> Must be getting ill.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That morning Crowley returned to the Fell residence, as promised, accompanied by a plethora of tech experts, engineers, fencing installers, and one locksmith and their assistant. This time he had called ahead so Anathema was at the gate to meet them. After a brief demonstration of the gate intercom, and a moment of horrified silence on the part of the installers, the work began. It was a clear day, the sun just starting to bring some warmth back into the air. Crowley was in his element, his favourite blue and orange site jacket marking him out - the one he affectionately referred to as his ‘Fuck Shit Up Jacket’. The dark blue clashed with his perennially black trousers almost as much as the bright orange clashed with his hair, but that was part of the joy of it as far as he was concerned. His long legs carried him at a brisk yet relaxed pace around the exterior of the house, sporadically pointing at certain points and dispatching small teams to install all manner of cameras, motion sensors and alarms. Alistair emerged to find his house swarming with people all dressed in serious uniforms, carrying tablets, laptops and metres and metres of cabling. Some were already up on ladders, and there appeared to be a small flying thing buzzing around near the roof. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good grie- What on earth is that?” Alistair wondered aloud as the drone buzzed towards him. He ducked as it sped over his head, spinning around to follow it, when he caught sight of red hair almost iridescent in the bright, winter sun. Crowley was stood in the middle of the front garden, slouching heavily on one hip. His face was frowning in relaxed concentration as he waved his arms around, shouting instructions.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oi Shem! That camera’s going to fall!” Alistair followed his gaze just in time to see a man up a ladder make a grab for a security camera he had just screwed (badly) to the wall, grasping at it as it fell to the ground and broke apart. “Ah, too late. Never mind. You’ve still got the other one.” Crowley grumbled. As he dropped his arm he caught sight of Alistair and nodded a greeting at him. Alistair raised one hand to wave then ducked in alarm as the drone buzzed over his head again. Crowley stifled a laugh and meandered over to him, circling around him to stop to his left. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is that infernal thing?!” Alistair grumbled. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s a drone Alistair, like a flying camera. They’re using it to check positions for the mounted cameras to make sure we cover as much of the outside as possible. Look over there, Hannah is controlling it.” Crowley said, leaning in slightly behind Alistair’s left shoulder and stretching one arm out ahead of them to direct his gaze. Alistair found the proximity slightly dizzying as he realised Crowley was so close that he could smell him, cloves and mace and something very earthy that Alistair couldn’t pinpoint. He realised suddenly that his gaze hadn’t made it past Crowley’s slender, elegant hand, and he quickly looked up to follow the direction it was pointing in, towards a woman standing near the front door frowning down at a tablet. Occasionally she looked up at the drone, and made a note on a clipboard balanced on a small folding table next to her. He gulped, trying to put some order to the hopeless scramble that his brain had suddenly become, hoping the man behind his left shoulder hadn’t noticed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right, yes, wonderful thing technology. Never got the hang of it myself.” He said with a nervous laugh. Crowley had dropped his arm, but was still standing very close to him where he was panicking slightly, hands clasped tightly together in front of his chest. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley, meanwhile, had leant in without thinking, to show Alistair the tech security company’s latest toy, and was now trying to work out why his body seemed stuck there. It was clearly awkward, but he couldn’t seem to tear himself away. He could see all the little tufty hairs on the nape of Alistair’s neck from this distance for someone’s sake. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is all this really necessary? There’s rather a lot of cameras. I don’t much fancy the idea of being watched all the time.” Alistair said, turning his head slightly towards his new bodyguard. Before Crowley could respond, Michael appeared.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Taking the ‘body’ part of ‘bodyguard’ very seriously I see.” She quipped, looking very pointedly at Crowley</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Michael!” Alistair admonished. Crowley didn’t move.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just explaining the security upgrades to our resident luddite here Mikey.” Crowley raised his arm again, swinging it around as he pointed out various points on the house. “So there will be a camera there, there and there, so you can see the front gate, the drive gate, and the whole front garden. We’ll put some around the back too, and along the fence line. No cameras inside the house though. We’re also putting in motion sensors, but we’ll see how those go. With the local fox population booming, might scrap them if they get too many false alarms. Right! I’d better go and check how they’re getting on at the back. Mike.” He said, nodding at Michael before finally pulling away behind Alistair and heading away for the back garden. Alistair tried to ignore the way his body swayed towards Crowley as he moved away, hoping neither Michael nor Crowley had seen it. Fortunately Michael was too preoccupied glaring at Crowley. Alistair was aware that Michael had started talking to him about some signing coming up at another bookshop, Bastion or something, but his brain was too busy trying to work out why Michael had got a nod as Crowley left but he hadn’t. He tried so hard to be likeable, to be accepted, but judging by his rudeness his new bodyguard didn’t think much of him. He hoped his disappointment didn’t show on his face. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley was angry at himself. First day and already he was making silly mistakes. He’d obviously stood too close and made his client uncomfortable, and then to cap it off he’d done his usual and lashed out when cornered. Not doing much to heal his reputation of being rude and annoying. <em>Since when have you cared about that though?</em> His treacherous brain supplied. He needed to get a grip otherwise this was going to be a very long assignment. He was strolling around the side of the house, muttering to himself when he almost walked into Anathema. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah! Crowley, there you are. We’ve got your room ready, come with me.” She said. Crowley followed along behind her, his long stride matching three of her bustling steps with one of his. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m afraid it’s not much as Alistair doesn’t usually have guests, and Pepper, Tracy, Uriel and I live here too. Michael also keeps a room, but she doesn’t always use it. Alistair is on the top floor, the library is just beneath, then we’re below that. Ground floor is garage, utility and bathroom on one side, kitchen and formal dining room to the back, study in the middle as you know and the drawing room at the front. We don’t use it very often, mostly for interviews as it looks good in pictures. Day to day life tends to happen in the kitchen, dining room or the library.” She led him into the house. Under the main staircase was a door that led to another staircase, leading down. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m afraid you’ll have to use the bathroom up here as we haven’t put the ensuite in down there yet, but the bedroom is quite comfortable.” She said as she led him down and opened a doorway onto a large room towards the back of the house. And indeed it was, although there was no way of disguising that it was in the basement, but effort had been made with a small window that opened onto what must have originally been the coal chute, letting in some natural daylight albeit rather diffused. The room’s lighting was soft, the colour scheme a generic neutral shade, and there was a large wooden bed in the centre of one wall flanked by matching bedside tables with lamps on them. Opposite it was a matching chest of drawers, and next to that was a small sofa and armchair tucked around a small coffee table. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As long as I can get the wifi down here I’ll be just fine.” He said. “What’s behind those doors?” He asked, pointing to two other doors that led off the small hallway.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, uh, that one’s the boiler room, can get a little noisy I’m afraid, and that one is the wine cellar.” She said, pointing to each door in turn. Crowley huffed out a little laugh. <em>Of course he has a wine cellar</em>, he mused. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Coo-ee! Anathema dear are you down there? I’ve just put out a spot of lunch for the troops!” Came a female voice down the stairs. The voice brought to Crowley’s mind a larger woman, dressed primly, hair piled on top of her head in a bun, probably wearing a sensible cardigan and a string of pearls that she would likely clutch at the sight of him. His mischievous streak had him grinning at the thought. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Coming Tracy!” Anathema called. When they arrived at the top of the stairs the woman before him was decidedly… not. A short bob in a colour that was a synthetic tint of his own, bright clothing haphazardly layered on a small frame, and chunky jewellery made her look larger than life. She eyed him from beneath unnaturally long, black eyelashes, letting her gaze openly wander over him before humming apparent approval, raising one eyebrow and strutting away. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve set up outside love!” She called out as she sashayed away. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley suddenly had a very good idea of what Pepper had been warning him about. He glanced sideways at Anathema from behind his sunglasses to see she had her lips folded inwards, purposefully looking away from him, trying to stifle a giggle. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Oh yes,</em> Crowley thought. <em>This assignment is going to be a long one.</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tracy had commandeered the fold out table in the front garden that the tech team had been using for their equipment, and had covered it with a huge buffet of finger food which the installers were all hovering around like moths to a flame. Each one held a paper plate and had their mouth full, and Tracy was dragging one poor sod by the arm back to the kitchen. Crowley just caught what she was saying as she passed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“…with me to the kitchen love, and I’ll whip you up a nice risotto. That’s gluten free isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pepper bounded over. “I don’t know how she does it, she always has just the right food for every occasion! I swear she’s psychic.” She said, before heading to the table. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley wandered over to the table after her and picked up a plate. He’d skipped breakfast so now he was rather hungry. Plate piled up and balanced on one hand, he meandered off into the back garden to find somewhere quiet to sit. He’d learnt early in life that it was wise to eat fast, and his career path had done nothing to dissuade that, but civilians found the speed with which he could clear a plate slightly alarming so he’d fallen into the habit of eating alone to avoid the stares and comments. He found a bench against the wall at the back of the house, near some double doors that had been thrown open to allow some fresh air into the house now it was finally starting to warm up. He set his drink down on the arm of the bench and sat down. He nearly spat his food out when he heard the first moan coming from inside the house. As it was, he froze, his eyes wide, as the blush started to creep up his neck. He didn’t want to get up and leave, as then whoever was in what he had assumed was the dining room would be made aware of his presence, and that would get even more awkward. Besides, he wasn’t sure his legs would be able to carry him right this second. Clearly a male voice, <em>probably that poor sod who got dragged in by the cook,</em> the moans continued, sounding muffled, as if the mouth that was making them was otherwise engaged at the time. <em>Fuck</em>. He thought. <em>Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fucking fucksicles</em>. He tried his best to eat to distract himself as the moans continued, but the sounds were wanton, for fuck’s sake, and it was doing all manner of unintentional things to Crowley’s body and making it hard to balance the plate on his lap. <em>Difficult! Difficult to balance the plate, Jesus Christ, get a grip Crowley! Argh, no, no, poor choice of words, get yourself under </em>control! He’d been around rich and powerful people long enough to know all sorts of things happened behind closed doors, but the first day on the job set an alarming precedent. He usually managed to ignore this sort of thing, but he’d never heard anything like the noises that were emanating from those open doors. The sounds were obscene, almost bypassing his ears and aiming straight to his now rather disobedient cock. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time the rapturous sounds had finished, Crowley was hunched over, elbows leaning on his knees with one finger firmly clamped between his teeth to avoid groaning himself. His half eaten lunch was discarded on the bench next to him. There had been a brief pause before the intensity changed towards the end, becoming thoroughly lewd then finishing with a small sigh. After a few minutes of silence, Crowley composed himself enough to sit up, leaning his head back against the rough render on the house’s outside wall, panting. He shut his eyes and took a few deep, shaky breaths, trying to ground himself on the feeling of the lumpy wall on the back of his head. He was rather thankful for the bulky jacket, even if he felt unbearably warm on this chilly winter day. Unfortunately he was in no way at all prepared for what, or who, he heard next. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How was that Mr. Fell?” Crowley’s eyes snapped open behind his sunglasses, but he managed to keep the rest of his face impassive by sheer willpower alone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Utterly delightful, as always, Madame Tracy.” Came a very familiar voice. <em>What the flying fuck?</em> Crowley thought. This guy was certainly full of surprises. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shall I clear the plates then?” Tracy asked. <em>And what’s with the ‘madame’?</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you’d be so kind my dear. I’d better head out and see how the preparations are coming along.” Alistair said. <em>By the sounds of it, they just did... </em>Crowley thought. He heard a chair scrape back as they both left the room, realising too late that Alistair was exiting via the open doors and was about to walk right past Crowley. He quickly grabbed his plate, holding it over his lap just as Alistair came around the corner. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh! Crowley, I didn’t realise you were out here!” Alistair said brightly, before looked at him slightly concerned. “My dear, are you alright? You seem a bit frazzled. All this security renovation must be taking its toll I suppose! I must say I was skeptical at first, but Anathema assures me it will be a glorious tool in our defence against this… profoundly disturbed person who seems to have taken their hatred a bit too far.” Alistair smiled brightly at him, although his hands were still clasped over his chest in a nervous gesture. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley opened his mouth and made a thin sound as he tried to speak. He cleared his throat, took a sip of water and tried again. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Glorious tool, yep, sorry a bit overwhelmed with all the noise. The people! All the people. Needed somewhere to sit.” He cringed internally, but Alistair seemed not to have noticed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, well next time you should join me in the dining room! If I ask nicely, Tracy always does something special for me. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.” Alistair said with a grin like he was letting Crowley into a special secret. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ngk!” Was all Crowley managed, nodding slightly as his words failed him. Alistair looked at him slightly uncertainly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right, jolly good, I’ll um, just go and see how they’re all getting on round the front then, shall I?” He said as he took a few faltering steps away, before turning more decisively and walking primly away. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Well.</em> Crowley thought as he breathed out slowly. <em>That was a thing. </em></span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh Crowley. What have you got yourself into?!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. In at the deep end</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for all the lovely comments! Now shall we see if these two are as smart as they think?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For the rest of the day, Crowley avoided the dining room as much as possible. It seemed everyone was used to eating at erratic times, so it was fairly simple to make sure he was never alone in there with either Alistair or Tracy. Pepper turned out to be an easy meal companion however. She was quite content to chatter endlessly at him while he ate, and was surprisingly unfazed by his speed of consumption. Crowley mused that she’d probably match him if she ever stopped talking long enough. He mentioned it while they were eating breakfast the next day, when he’d managed to get a word in edgeways. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nah my three best mates are boys, and they’re pretty similar. Too keen to get back out on the track!” She said. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Track? You race?” He said with genuine interest. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yep” She grinned at him. “We’re a karting team, Adam, Wensleydale, Brian and I. Everyone calls us ‘THEM’ and Adam decided it means 'Track and Horizon Eating Machines'. He’s the fastest in our team, proper speed demon. They nicknamed him ‘The Antichrist’ because you know when he arrives, it's all over.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh? Do you all have nicknames then?” Crowley asked. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nah, just Adam. Although we call Wensleydale ‘Wensley’ for short. He’s the tactician. Studies every track in minute detail and lets us know the precise speed and angle for each turn. He’s really smart, unlike Brian who keeps getting pulled over for messy driving. He gets really grumpy because he thinks he’s God’s gift to racing, but in reality he’s a sloppy driver.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not the automotive messiah then?” Crowley quipped. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ha! No, just a very naughty boy, on the track.” She grinned back. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And you?” Crowley asked.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m the secret weapon.” Pepper said smugly. “Drivers that know me know to stay well out of my way. Those that don’t see a girl and assume I’m no threat to them. They get one hell of a shock when they see me screaming down the track at them like a valkyrie.” She took a forceful bite out of her toast, still grinning at him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Noted. Don’t mess with the war-bird in her chariot.” He nodded, returning her grin. “So how did you end up here? Not exactly formula one is it?” He asked. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nah, but the pay and benefits are excellent, and Alistair is a dream to work for. To be honest I wasn’t expecting to get this job, Adam applied initially, and I just threw my hat in for a laugh, but it turns out Mr. F prefers to hire women.” Crowley froze for a moment as he thought about what he overheard the other day, but fortunately she didn’t notice. “Turns out he had a couple of crappy relationships and got fed up of men so now surrounds himself with women to avoid the complication. Apparently his ex treated him quite badly. You’re the first bloke we’ve had stay in the house for as long as I’ve been here, but I guess he needed the best!” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley’s thought process stumbled a bit. “Fed up of men?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh yeah, Alistair is gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Haven’t you read his books?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I knew he was getting targeted by someone with a homophobic agenda,” Crowley said, hissing. He had his own reasons to feel extremely angry about that type of attack. “I assumed it was something in his books.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yep, not a heterosexual bone in his body. That a problem?” Pepper said, watching him carefully, with more steel in her voice. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What? No! Couldn’t care less.” Crowley said as nonchalantly as possible with a dismissive wave of his hand, forcing himself to calm down. While it certainly put his mind to rest over what sort of man surrounded himself with women like this, it did throw a big question mark over what he had actually overheard yesterday in the dining room. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good.” She said firmly. “Right, I’m off to tinker with the chariot. See you at family lunch later!” And she whirled around and sped off before Crowley could ask what ‘family lunch’ meant. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And so Crowley had a lot to puzzle over as he completed his checks of the fence and security systems. Once he was satisfied that everything was still in full working order he retreated down to his room. He was happy enough letting Uriel guard Alistair in the house, he could probably trust her here, and so he decided it would be a good time to try the shower. He took off his jacket, grabbed the fluffy white towel and his phone and headed upstairs to the bathroom on the floor above. It was a small, but surprisingly well equipped bathroom, and while the shower was a more reasonable size than his extravagant one at home, it was by no means cramped. Once there he kicked off his socks and shoes, peeled off his tight black trousers and boxers, and unbuttoned his dark grey shirt, slipping it off his arms before folding it neatly. He never wore a tie, too easy for it to be used against him. He put his sunglasses down on the little shelf below the mirror, hung his towel by the shower door and with only half a glance at his reflection in the mirror, went to grab his shower gel. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Bugger. Left it downstairs.</em> Crowley thought for a minute. He couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of getting back into his trousers just to dash downstairs, so wrapped his towel loosely around his waist and peered out of the door. The garage door was shut, and seeing nobody else he dashed quickly back out to the entrance hall, aiming for the basement stairs. Just as he got to the middle of the hall, the door to the drawing room opposite opened and Alistair stepped out. They both froze as he saw Crowley stood there in just a towel. Wide grey eyes (Crowley was sure they were blue last time he saw them) flicking down at his slender, naked torso and the towel clutched low around his hips, clearly of their own accord before making their way back to his own golden brown eyes. His very uncovered eyes he realised as he pictured his sunglasses back in the bathroom. Somehow that made him feel more naked than his lack of clothing. They both spoke at the same time.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry I was just-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, good Lord! Um-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The tension in the air was so thick that Crowley could barely breathe. His body felt simultaneously hot and cold, although the tiles were definitely cold under his feet. He thought back to what Pepper had told him that morning, realising that he was half naked- all right, mostly naked, just as he noticed a rosy flush heading up Alistair’s neck. It really was rather a lovely shade of pink.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lunch!” Alistair blurted out. “With me. Us. All of us. Today - it’s family lunch day. We all get together once a week to have lunch out and this week it’s my turn to choose the location. I wasn’t sure if you’d been properly invited so, um, now you have. We head out at eleven thirty.” He said, his voice sounding higher pitched than normal, and his gaze darting between Crowley’s face and spots of wall very definitely above him. Eyes definitely not venturing below neck level, no matter how hard they tried.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right. Ok. Sounds good. I’ll, um, sorry, just... forgot shower gel…” He said, pointing vaguely towards the stairs down to his room. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quite, yes, don’t let me hold you. Up! Yes don’t let me hold you up. From getting your shower gel. Hah. Terribly sorry.” Alistair managed to fumble out, his voice strained. Neither of them moved for what felt like an hour but was really only about a minute before Crowley awkwardly side-stepped away. He heard a soft, muffled gasp as he turned, before remembering that his back was bare. He usually warned people before they saw the scars. He tried his best to walk as normally as he was able to (which to be fair wasn’t much) as he made for the safety of the stairs but his legs had decided they had a mind of their own. The natural sway of his hips was causing the towel to slip, and it was all he could do to just get himself away. He waited until he heard Alistair’s footsteps take him up the stairs in the other direction before he ventured back out towards the bathroom again, this time with shower gel in hand and towel firmly secured higher on his waist. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair knew he shouldn’t but he was a martyr to most forms of decadence, and right now, standing on the landing looking down over the entrance hall as Crowley slipped out towards the shower again was about as dangerously decadent as he could be. He knew he shouldn’t tempt himself by stealing another look but the man was utterly sublime to the point of being unfair. Lean and toned in such a way that Alistair had been able to see every movement of every muscle beneath his skin. The man was, between the intriguing scars and the tantalising glimpse of a colourful tattoo on his hip where the towel slipped as he sauntered away, quite simply breathtaking. And yet Crowley had been avoiding him yesterday. He obviously thought very little of him, and Alistair knew he couldn’t put himself through that again. Crowley was clearly one of those effortlessly cool bad boys that movies always warned you about, and Alistair didn’t need the trouble that came with them. No matter how much he really, really, wanted it. A quiet cough alerted him to the fact that Uriel had come out of her room at the other side of the landing. She looked at him with one eyebrow slightly raised. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Everything alright?” She asked. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, my dear, sorry, got distracted. Thinking about eating out. Lunch! Thinking about where to go for lunch I mean.” He said and quickly sped off up the next two flights of stairs to his room before she could respond. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shortly before half eleven they all gathered by the bottom of the stairs. Uriel was watching Crowley where he slouched against the bannisters with no attempt at hiding her hostility, while Anathema, Tracy and Pepper were quietly discussing where they thought they might be going this time. Alistair came down the stairs with his hands clasped gently behind his back, purposefully avoiding looking at a now unfortunately far more dressed Crowley. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah wonderful! Everyone ready? Michael is staying back today to sort some press stuff she said. I thought we’d go to the club - the one in Mayfair - Little House.” Alistair said brightly. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Awesome! I’m having a burger. To the Bentley!” Pepper cheered, before thrusting one hand in the air and leading the way. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wait.” Crowley said suddenly, and with enough force that everyone stopped. He continued quietly. “While we’re out of the house I’m in charge. What I say goes. Understood?” He looked at each one in turn, and they nodded. Uriel was reluctant but under the watchful eyes of the others she acquiesced as well. Finally Crowley looked towards Alistair, and he sighed and nodded. Alistair realised that whatever he had been trying to see from their little encounter earlier must have been a figment of his overindulgent imagination. Crowley was nothing but professional now, as if none of it had ever happened. He felt a little foolish but resolved to enjoy their lunch, following the rest of them out to the car. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley knew that there could be no messing around now. Now he was on duty, and he needed to Get. His. Shit. Together. He strode out first, making sure everyone got into the car. It wasn't far to Mayfair, but with an active threat cars were safer than walking. Tracy and Uriel were to go ahead in a taxi, while he accompanied Alistair, Anathema and Pepper in the Bentley. Crowley walked out to the waiting black cab with Tracy and Uriel. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m relying on you to do recon ahead of our arrival Uriel. Think you can handle that?” He said to her. She merely sneered in response and got in the taxi. Before heading back to the Bentley, Crowley checked up and down the street for anything suspicious, noting the cars parked there, then headed back through the opening drive gates. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll sit in the back with Alistair, you can have shotgun Anathema.” He said, all the while looking all around them. He waited for Alistair to climb in, before following him. Anathema then pushed the seat back and climbed in herself. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley was concentrating on their surroundings, and staying upright in the car. Pepper could certainly drive, but she had a tendency to drive the Bentley as if it were her go-kart rather than a classic piece of automotive history. Her driving style was most definitely in the ‘offensive’ category, and Crowley resolved to take her out for a drive soon to teach her some defensive driving tactics, and the finer points of a double-clutch gear box. He was hyper focusing on the space outside the car so much, that he forgot to pay attention to the inside of the car, and as Pepper went round a bend he slammed his hand down on the seat next to him to keep himself upright. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Right on top of Alistair’s hand. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair just about managed not to jump out of the seat, and glanced sideways at Crowley. He didn’t seemed to have noticed where he’d put his hand, or, thankfully, Alistair’s reaction to it. Alistair felt like every single sense in his body was now utterly focussed on the skin on the back of his hand where Crowley's was resting on it. The club wasn’t too far though, so very quickly they were outside and Crowley removed his hand to lean forward to check Uriel and Tracy were there before letting Pepper unlock the doors for them to get out. As Alistair was climbing out, still thinking about the way his hand felt now, he looked up to see Crowley looking at him with one hand extended and he felt his heart miss a beat. He so badly wanted to rip off those infernal sunglasses and see those unique eyes beneath. He’d caught a glimpse of them earlier, and had been stunned at how expressive they were. He wondered what emotion they were expressing now. Interest? Affection? Something darker?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Coming?” Crowley said, tearing Alistair from his fantasies with a bump. “I’d rather not stand out here all day.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, of course.” He mumbled, all too aware that he had been staring for slightly longer than was appropriate. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They headed into the reception area, where Uriel was waiting with a very self-satisfied expression on her face. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No visible threats,” she said to Crowley as they approached, “But this club only allows four guests per member. Guess you’ll have to wait here.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As they reached the desk, the receptionist greeted Alistair warmly. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mr Fell!” He said. “So wonderful to see you again! And your usual four guests?” He said taking his membership card to scan. Anathema was busy signing them all in on the other side. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes my dear, and today I will have Mr Crowley with me too. Is that a problem?” Alistair said nervously. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The receptionist turned to Crowley. “Not at all - wonderful to see you again Mr Crowley. Do you have your card with you by any chance?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley took out his wallet and handed his card over whilst smiling his most winning smile at Uriel, who just scowled in response. Crowley had spent many long hours in most of the private members clubs in London on various assignments. He tended to be employed by people who preferred the more exclusive nature of a club, and over the years he had ended up becoming a member to most of them himself. It was tactically convenient to have these semi-safe houses all over the place. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh how fortunate! I don’t suppose there’s a table in the dining room free?” Alistair asked with a devastatingly charming twinkle in his eye.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“By some miracle there is.” The receptionist responded after checking his screen. “We had a cancellation this morning. But you do know next time you really should book - your miraculous luck is sure to fail some day!” He said with a smile as they all headed through to the dining room. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley went ahead, carefully looking around from behind his sunglasses, surveying the area as they walked through. He knew the layout of this club quite well from all his previous visits, but it had been a while since he was last there so he didn’t know all the staff this time around and it was unnerving. Usually he worked with planned outings, where he’d been able to go in advance and make sure there was nothing unexpected. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man approaching Alistair, looking very purposeful. Not in staff uniform so he had to be a civvy. He darted in front of them so fast that it made Alistair jump. Crowley had a hand on the other man’s chest, and a snarl on his face. The other man was shorter than Crowley, and his rotund body did nothing to aid the matter. He was bald, and had a very determined look in his eye that Crowley really didn’t care for. They stared at each other for quite some time. Anathema looked at him curiously, a spark of recognition trying to ignite in her brain. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Really, Crowley!” Alistair finally cut in, irritation getting the better of him. “I think you can stand down. You’ve made your point. What can we do for you?” He said in far softer tones, looking at the man. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re Alistair Fell, aren’t you?” He said. Everything about his tone of voice was igniting Crowley’s sense of danger. It was monotone, verging on smarmy, and sounded rehearsed. “I’m sorry to bother you but I just missed you at your last signing, and as I have my copy with me today, I was wondering if I could trouble you to sign it for me?” Crowley didn’t move, his hand still firmly on the man’s chest, and his body shielding Alistair. He didn’t like this one bit. But unfortunately, Alistair was the boss.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course my dear!” Alistair said, stepping around Crowley. “Here, do you have a pen- oh wonderful. And what name am I putting in it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sandalphon, if you’d be so kind.” The man said, still watching Crowley. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, a biblical name. How wonderful. Here you go!” Alistair said cheerfully, handing the book and pen back to him. Alistair gave Crowley an angry glance before walking off to where the waiter was hovering by their table, a horseshoe shaped booth in the corner. Crowley hovered back to make sure this Sandalphon fella didn’t try his luck. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You want to watch it with him.” Sandalphon said, the sneer in his voice coming through more clearly as he looked Crowley over. “His lot cause a lot of… trouble.” His face twisted into a full sneer before he turned, clutching his book, and left. Crowley watched him as he walked right out of the club and onto the street beyond. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So. Now he had a suspect. Later, he would make some calls. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he joined the others at the table, the ladies had slid into the booth seating and Alistair was occupying the chair on the edge. Crowley gave his drink order to the hovering waiter (cranberry juice) before sitting down on the edge of the booth to Alistair’s left where he could get a good view of the restaurant, and an unimpeded exit should he require it. It also meant he had space to let his legs sprawl out as they usually did, with one arm on the back of the booth. He held the menu up as if he was studying it, but used the opportunity to inspect the diners around them from behind his sunglasses. He’d learned fairly early on that it was always useful to watch other people when they didn’t know you were doing it. On the tables around them he could see mostly professional types, groups of adults, the occasional two people. No children today. As he finished his evaluation of the restaurant, the waiter returned with their drinks, and to take their order. As per protocol he looked to the ladies first, before turning to Crowley, who casually glanced at the menu before ordering a steak (rare). At least with Pepper here he wouldn’t be so out of place when he ate quickly. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And I’ll have the crêpes, as usual, please.” Alistair said with a beaming smile. Crowley briefly melted under its radiance before he remembered he was working, and pushed the feeling deep down where it couldn’t be a nuisance. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Didn’t see those on the menu. Did I miss the specials board?” Crowley asked as the waiter left. Alistair turned his radiant smile on him and he felt his palms start to sweat, which was ridiculous.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh no dear boy, the chef here knows I adore them so he makes them specially for me whenever we come.” He gave a happy little wiggle which Crowley was aghast to discover left him with a strange urge to squeeze him. <em>He’s a grown man getting excited about food, what the fuck is wrong with me?</em> Crowley thought. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s such a dear.” Alistair said wistfully. For some reason, Crowley didn’t share the sentiment. For some reason he was inclined to think otherwise, and it bothered him. He had no reason to think ill of the chef, and yet, here he was, taking an instant dislike to someone he’d never met. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair turned to talk to Uriel, and Crowley felt a light touch on his arm. He turned to see Tracy leaning over to him looking conspiratorial, so he leaned towards her. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You have seen Alistair eating before, haven’t you?” She asked very quietly. “You’re aware of how much he… enjoys his food?” She was looking at him very intently, gauging his response. Just beyond her, Anathema and Pepper were surreptitiously paying him a lot of attention. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He decided honesty was the best policy. “I guessed he loved his food from the wiggle, but I don’t think I’ve seen him eat yet, no.” He said. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tracy’s face morphed into a coy smile as Anathema and Pepper shared a look he couldn’t decipher. Their eyes were full of mirth at whatever private joke they weren’t sharing with him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not to worry then dearie, just don’t make a fuss of it, there’s a lamb.” She said, twitching her nose before sitting back leaving him perplexed and wary. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shortly the food arrived, and with it another radiant smile and wiggle from Alistair. Crowley had finally relaxed to the point where he felt safe enough to start on his food, so he was looking at his plate having just put a piece of steak in his mouth when Alistair took his first bite of the crêpes. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The groan of satisfaction that erupted caused Crowley to bite his tongue, and swiftly thank anyone and everyone listening for his sunglasses. Again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you quite alright Crowley?” Alistair asked, eyeing him with concern. The others were eyeing him with a different sentiment. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, yeah, just bit my tongue, I’ll be fine” He mumbled out, pointing at his mouth. He thought back to what he had overheard, in the garden. Then he thought a bit harder about Tracy’s question. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Oh bollocks.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Three of the other occupants of the table were looking at him with varying degrees of mirth. Uriel somehow had remained impassive throughout the whole thing, merely sneering at him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair took another bite of crêpe, and another moan accompanied it. At least this time Crowley had seen it coming, but it still made it very hard to concentrate on his food. <em>Difficult, fuck’s sake. </em>His throat felt very dry and he took a gulp of his drink but the cranberry juice didn’t help much. He did his best to ignore what was happening next to him, and thankfully it wasn’t quite as… uninhibited as the last time he experienced it, but it still had the older group at the next booth shooting them disapproving looks. Shooting <em>him</em> disapproving looks, as if he had anything to do with whatever this was.<em> Fuck it's warm in this restaurant.</em> Crowley glanced around at the other diners. Some looked uncomfortable, but the table directly behind Alistair had two slightly older men, all dressed in black, stifling giggles into their beards. One raised a large, wide brimmed black hat to cover his face as he whispered something to the other, that had his shaggy grey hair shaking with silent mirth. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Another salacious moan had Crowley’s attention snapped back to the man next to him again. He hailed a waiter. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Some water, with ice, for the table please.” He croaked out. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My goodness Crowley, are you alright? You look very warm.” Alistair asked, noticing his distressed state. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yep, perfectly fine, just wish I’d worn less. Layers. Fewer layers. I’ll know for next time.” <em>FUCK.</em> He had been in some pretty intense situations over the years, but this topped them all. He could handle life or death decisions, he would jump in front of his client without a second thought, but apparently a few explicit sounds from those plump lips were enough to have him panicking into his rump steak. <em>Why did it have to be rump?! </em>Alistair’s audible enjoyment of his food may have been more restrained in public, but somehow Crowley found that even more arousing. A situation not helped at all by now knowing what facial expression accompanied the noises. The satisfied smile, the fluttering eyelashes, the tongue darting out to lick those luscious pink lips between mouthfuls. It was obscene, and Crowley was hating how much he was being utterly wreaked by it. Hating the visions swimming across his mind’s eye of what the face might look like in true carnal bliss. It wasn’t hard to imagine what those lips might look like on him, but it certainly didn’t help right now. The conversation was carrying on across the table around the moaning, but Crowley couldn’t follow it, let alone take part. He tried to look as if he was just remaining alert for threats. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He realised he was failing when he felt a timely kick to his left ankle and nearly dropped the fork that he had been hovering half way to his mouth for who knows how long now. He quickly shoved the food into his mouth and tried to focus on getting through this meal without disgracing himself any further. <em>Surely he must know what he’s doing?! </em>He thought.<em> Or is this just another thing they haven’t told him?</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair was the last to finish his meal, finally setting his cutlery down with a sigh and dabbing his mouth delicately with his napkin, and somehow even that was extraordinarily erotic. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Their waiter appeared again, as if by magic.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you care for the pudding menu?” He asked. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh Peter, you know what I like. What do you recommend?” Alistair asked, with a glint in his eye and a conspiratorial grin. Crowley groaned internally. He didn’t know if he could take another course. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We have a chocolate brioche bread and butter pudding on at the moment. Would that suffice?” The waiter said, returning the glint. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Perfect!” Aziraphale beamed, turning back to the table. “Does everyone like the sound of that?” He asked. There was a general chorus of agreement, until the waiter turned to Crowley. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not much of a sweet tooth. Just some black coffee for me.” He said, taking the opportunity to adjust his position now the source of his discomfort had quietened down. Alistair looked slightly disappointed, but rallied with a smile as the waiter left. Anathema, and Pepper were mirroring his dismayed expression, Tracy merely had one eyebrow raised, and Uriel just looked bored. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you enjoy your steak then?” Alistair asked Crowley lightly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“S’alright.” He said with a frown. It was all he could manage right now. He hadn’t really thought too much about how it tasted at the time, mostly just trying to get it down. Although the meaty texture on his tongue had added an extra dimension to this experience that would make him think twice about eating steak in company again. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley hadn’t quite managed to get his body under control by the time the puddings arrived. He gulped down his coffee, focusing on the bitter taste. Alistair had dived into his pudding with a gleeful abandon, and if anything the sounds had only got worse, deepening in tone as he savoured the chocolate. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My word!” Alistair said breathlessly, and slightly muffled as he still had food in his mouth. “This is simply superb! You have to try some Crowley!” He exclaimed, and Crowley realised with horror that Alistair was holding his spoon laden with gooey chocolate brioche out to him. Everything around him seemed to stop as he tried and failed to remain professional. He hesitated long enough for Alistair’s eyebrows to start creeping together and up, and he knew he couldn’t let that happen, so he leaned forward and wrapped his mouth around the spoon. He realised with a jolt that went straight down to his now reawakening member, that Alistair was avidly watching his lips as he drew the spoon out, and that he was showing just a hint of blushing. <em>Fuck</em>. Crowley rolled the pudding around his mouth. It was indeed rather good, if you liked that sort of thing. Everyone at the table was looking at him expectantly. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not bad. Too sweet for me though. I generally prefer something with a bit more bite.” He said picking up his coffee, again noting the general consensus that that wasn’t the right thing to say, but he wasn’t here to flirt, he was here to protect, and feelings just got in the way of that. He frowned at Anathema but she just rolled her eyes and turned back to Pepper. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Unfortunately Alistair carried on wantonly vocalising his enjoyment of his pudding, and Crowley realised half way through his coffee that he had made a bad choice. He’d forgotten that caffeine was a stimulant, and the last thing he needed right now was more stimulating. It was all he could do not to rock into his jeans for fuck’s sake. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time Alistair finished again, with another ridiculously erotic sigh and napkin dab, Crowley was leaning forward with one elbow on the table. He’d brought his left foot up to rest on his right knee and was flicking the hanging foot around in the air in a rather agitated manner. Mercifully there was a sufficient gap between this and the bill being paid that Crowley was able, with significant effort, to get his body back under control enough not to be embarrassed when he had to stand up. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The ride back to the house was fairly uneventful, Tracy rode back with them this time, and chatted away to Pepper as she drove. Crowley kept his gaze out of the window next to him and his hands in his lap, letting the mindless cityscape moving past calm him down. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley only had to help Alistair a little bit to work out how to get back in past the new security system, and when they all dispersed inside he turned to Crowley with a defeated expression.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry lunch was so dull for you my dear. Hopefully we’ll find some more exciting activities to make your stay with us more interesting.” He said sadly, before turning to the stairs and heading up to the library. Uriel shouldered him roughly on her way past, following Alistair. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley just stood with his mouth open in the empty entrance hall, before making his way down to his own room to give himself a very thorough talking to, and then phone some people. <em>Dull?!</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair kept to himself in the library for the rest of the afternoon, choosing to take his evening meal up there too. He had been so looking forward to Crowley joining their weekly ‘family meal’ and had been so disappointed when he didn’t seem to join in with any of the conversation. The one thing he did do was leap on that poor man who just wanted a signature. Alistair knew his books were divisive, but he so desperately wanted to be accepted by people, and Crowley jumping on innocent fans was not going to help. Frankly, the man had done nothing but be rude and take over his house so far, and Alistair was starting to wonder why he agreed to having him around in the first place, and thinking guiltily about skin tight black trousers and a roguish smile. Anathema had reminded him that he had a book signing coming up in a few days, and he decided that he would see how Crowley behaved there. If he didn’t show some of this much talked about skill, then he could ask him to leave. Regardless of his own selfish desires, he wouldn’t let anyone take over his life like that again. He didn’t care how breathtakingly gorgeous they were, how they way they moved was utterly sinful, or how the way his voice made Alistair feel all light and fluttery, yet completely weak at the same time, or… </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">Oh dear. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feeling even more conflicted,<em> I don’t even know if he’s interested in men</em>, Alistair settled in with a book to take his mind off the upcoming signing. A bit of Wodehouse always cheered him up. If only he could stop bestowing the characters with golden brown eyes and flaming hair… </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley put his coat back on and wandered back out into the front garden with his phone in hand. He scrolled to T, found ‘Tyler’ and tapped the green icon. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, R.P! Yep it’s Crowley. Yep. I am. Listen, I’m on a job here and could do with some of your investigative skills. If I send you some letters do you think you could see what you could get off them? And I have a potential name too which might help your search. ‘Sandalphon.’ Yep, nasty piece of work R.P. and I’m coming to you because you’re the best. Yeah, I know, I’ll owe you one, add it to the tab… Cheers. Ciao!” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feeling a bit more in control, he headed back in to find Anathema and the letters, and hopefully a plan of what was coming up in the next week so next time he could feel a bit more prepared. In the meantime, he needed to work Alistair out a bit more. The man was a mystery. He’d clearly misunderstood what was going on in the dining room that day, <em>but to be fair, who the hell eats like that?! Let alone in public!</em> He’d done all he could with background, maybe it was time to delve a bit inside the mind of the author. And he knew just how to go about it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair was a terrible sleeper. Always had been. So it wasn’t usual for him to pad down to the library at all hours of the night to get a book to occupy himself with. This time however, as he walked quietly in he got a bit of a shock. His Chesterfield sofa was currently being occupied by a languishing Crowley, but the biggest shock was that Crowley seemed to be half way through one of his own books. The man was laying on the sofa, head one end, legs sprawled dangerously far apart with socked feet hanging one over the back and one draped down to the floor. He had Alistair’s book resting on his chest, and seemed to be staring out the darkened window, but goodness knows what he could see with those ridiculous sunglasses on still. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh! Oh I’m so sorry…” Alistair said quietly, drawing his robe about himself protectively, but Crowley didn’t even acknowledge him. Alistair felt himself becoming upset by the rude behaviour, when he heard a soft snore and realised that Crowley was fast asleep. His heart melted as he took in the scene. Crowley must have liked the book to have kept going to the point of slumber. There was an empty tumbler on the table next to him, so Alistair crept quietly over, gently removed the book and his sunglasses, placing both on the table by the glass, and covered Crowley with a spare tartan blanket that he kept stashed behind the sofa. He found the book he had come looking for, and turned the lamp off, allowing himself one more luxurious look at the vulnerable, sleeping form of his bodyguard in the moonlight that was streaming through the window. Crowley’s face had relaxed into a lovely, genuine smile that he hadn’t seen before, and he realised that he was going to find a way of seeing it again. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sleep well, dear boy. I hope you dream of whatever you like best.” He said softly. He stopped short of giving him a kiss to his forehead, realising that if he did wake up it would be hard to explain, but his heart was warmed by the possibility that Crowley might not dislike him as much as it appeared. Alistair headed back up to his bed and was soon fast asleep himself. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley woke up early the next morning with an awfully stiff neck, slightly disturbed that someone had apparently removed his sunglasses and put a blanket over him in the night without him noticing. He’d had strange dreams, all wrapped up in the plot of the book, but they had been pleasant, which made a change. He was going to regret falling asleep on the sofa, but that was a problem for later. Right now he needed a shower, fresh clothes, and to make good on his promise to Pepper. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*sigh*</p>
<p>And so begins the dance. Just a pity that one of them is doing a Paso Doble, and the other a Gavotte. </p>
<p>Of course Brian is not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy! And I cannot believe that that is a coincidence in the original book. </p>
<p>And yes that was Neil and Terry giggling at Alistair and Crowley from the next table. Terry is alive and well in this story because I can, and Terry always cameod.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. In the driving seat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley got Anathema to share Alistair’s diary with him, so he knew Alistair had planned to spend the day at home. Leaving Uriel in charge, he found Pepper eating breakfast at the kitchen island, stuffing her face with fluffy American pancakes, maple syrup dribbling down her chin. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wo'?” She demanded when she saw his amused expression, her mouth full of pancake. She wiped her chin with a napkin and glared at him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You missed a spot.” He teased as he sat down on the stool next to her, earning him an eye roll. “What're you up to today?” He asked. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She thought for a moment, studying his expression. “Not much. Nothing that I couldn’t put off to tomorrow anyway. Why?” She fixed him with an attempt at nonchalance, but a hopeful grin was fighting its way through. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Weeeeeeell” Crowley began lightly. “Far be it for me to tell you how to drive, but-“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You gonna teach me how to drive like a spy?!” She jumped in excitedly. Crowley laughed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sort of. Finish your pancakes and I’ll meet you by the Bentley in half an hour or so.” He said smiling as he went round the island to fire up the coffee machine, placing his huge travel mug under the nozzle. “I need my morning transfusion first.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yesss!” He heard behind him before Pepper dived back into her pancakes with extra gusto. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Half an hour later, as promised, Pepper was waiting in the driving seat, not even bothering to hide her excitement. Crowley strolled in and huffed out a laugh. </span> <span class="s1">He slid into the passenger seat, passing Pepper a small black box.</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You and I are going to need to be a team Pepper, so you’ll need one of these.” He said as she opened the box. Inside, nestled in dark grey foam, was a small ear piece and microphone. She stared at it with a huge grin on her face. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Cool! Wait until the guys hear about this! They are going to be soooooo jealous!” She said, turning to him. “Do we get codenames? Spy gadgets? Oooooooooh have you got an exploding pen?! Knife that pops out of your shoe?!” She looked him over critically, looking for anything that could hide a weapon.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley laughed. “Whoa, whoa, nothing like that. I’m not a spy, just a bodyguard.” Crowley said. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah but that’s exactly what a spy <em>would</em> say.” She said, examining his sunglasses suspiciously. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pepper, do you want to learn some professional driving techniques or not?” Crowley said with a sigh. “We can come back to the earpiece later."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She put the box in the door pocket, turned back to the wheel and started the car. She pressed the button that opened the garage door and then the gate. “Where to?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anywhere with a lot of space.” He said. “And not too many people.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pepper thought for a moment. “I know a place.” She said with a smile. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They drove to a location on the very extremes of what might be classed as London, only by virtue of being just inside the infernal ring that was the M25. It took a while, so they had time to talk. And Pepper was good at talking. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So what’s the weirdest thing you’ve done being a ‘bodyguard’?” She asked him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley noted her insinuation. “Well I used to be in diplomatic protection.” He said. “Working for the Met. We used to look after all the foreign dignitaries that were visiting for events. Not much I can tell you from that time though.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?! How can that be? Not even one exciting car chase, or a fight to the death? Scandalous affairs? Nothing? Diplomats are more boring than I thought.” She said with evident disappointment. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley chuckled. “No… I just can’t tell you about it. Signed the official secrets act. If I told you, I’d have to kill you, and I was just starting to like you, so my lips are sealed.” He drew his fingers over his lips as if zipping them shut for emphasis. Pepper growled in frustration. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There must be <em>something</em> you can tell me!” She moaned. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley thought for a minute. “I’ve done a fair amount of private work that isn’t covered by the act, so I suppose I can tell you some of that. But only if I can trust you to keep it to yourself. Can I trust you?” He asked seriously. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course!” She snorted. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well then. I delivered a baby once. That was a pretty long day. A big CEO was visiting some sprawling facility in the arse end of Oxfordshire, dragging his pregnant wife around who I was being paid to protect, and she popped early and things moved pretty fast. No hospitals for miles. I was the only one she trusted so while we waited for the ambulance I got on with it. Big lad he was. I hadn’t been out in the private sector for long, and I was so overwhelmed by it all I handed the baby to the wrong bloke. We got it all sorted out in the end, although I did need a new shirt.” Crowley said.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pepper looked a bit disappointed. “Surely you must have done more exciting things than that?! No rooftop brawls? No leaning out of cars to shoot their tyres?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How fast do you think this car can go?” He asked.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dunno. Eighty? Maybe? Downhill? With a tailwind?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What about in central London?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hah!” Pepper scoffed. “You’d be lucky to get to thirty in central London most of the time. I think I managed fifty once late at night on the A40.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“One hundred and ten.” Crowley said, grinning. “At night, with no lights, in a McLaren F1. Tore down Whitehall and drifted round the Cenotaph, shortly before losing our tail when they misjudged the entrance to Westminster bridge and went head first into the Thames. You don’t get that sort of performance from a modern car.” He sounded nostalgic as he patted the Bentley's dashboard. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pepper’s eyes went wide. “No…” She breathed. “I heard about that! We all thought it was an urban legend!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pfff. That manoeuvre’s nothing. Piece of cake. Try pulling that shit when you have altitude to worry about as well.” Crowley looked at her over the top of his sunglasses, and winked. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bullshit.” Pepper said. “No way you can fly too. You’re definitely a spy.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Started out in the R.A.F. Learnt to fly and got pretty good at it too.” He told her. It wasn’t something he normally spoke about, but her excitement had been so infectious he’d forgotten why he usually avoided mentioning it. He braced for the inevitable question about why he left.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So what’s the coolest plane you’ve flown? And where have you flown to? Have you ever shot down an enemy plane? Are stealth planes real? Do you all have cool call-signs? Is it like Top Gun? I bet it is, isn’t it.” Pepper rushed out in one single breath.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Well that was different. Crowley relaxed again and let out a smile. He waited for her to glance over then just raised one eyebrow and tapped his nose by way of a response. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck off.” She said. “You’re definitely a spy. Hey, if I’m helping you, does that make me a spy too?” She said, glancing down at the box that held the earpiece. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pepper, I’m just a bodyguard. I do security. I keep people safe. If I was a spy, why would I be following around a charming little author like Alistair?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s easy." She said, taking one hand off the wheel to count off her points. "He gets into everywhere, is expected to ask all sorts of odd questions which he gets answers to, and has a vast library of resources. Maybe you’ve discovered he’s got some sensitive information up there that you need! Or maybe you’re going to drag him in as well, perhaps set up a sting under the guise of selling precious books to the enemy! It’s the perfect cover!” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley burst out laughing at the idea of Alistair playing a spy. “Oh yeah? Can you see him? At night in a church or something, pretending to be a double agent? Not a chance. Besides, you haven’t even considered that if I’m a spy, I might be a foreign agent.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was Pepper’s turn to burst out laughing this time, giving him a withering look he was realising he was going to be seeing a lot of. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So…” She changed topic swiftly. “Charming eh?” Pepper raised one eyebrow and let the observation sink in. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley shut down his expression and blinked a few times. He had said that hadn’t he? Why had he said that? </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Er, yeah, I mean, he must be to have got this far in life. All rich people are charming, aren’t they?” <em>Great, good cover you twat. </em>Crowley noticed the radio. “Hey, that’s not original. What music do you listen to?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pepper paused for a moment, but let him change the subject. “Nothing you’d like, I’m sure. Besides, it’s broken. The dial button for changing the radio station broke so we’re stuck with one station now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley pressed the button. It was right there, and after a story like that it was just begging to be pressed. Eighties pop music filled the car, and Whitney Houston sang loud about her desire for a dance partner, amongst other things.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Could be worse.” Crowley chuckled.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a bit more driving, and both of them giving in and enjoying the music, they finally arrived at an old section of disused runway just outside Weybridge. It had a looping little go-kart track at one end that was open for all to use. Being a weekday during term time it was empty. Pepper stopped in the middle of the runway section and turned off the music. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is Brooklands.” She said. “The birthplace of British motorsport. Over there, behind Mercedes Benz World, is the original mechanics areas and clubhouse. It’s now a museum.” She pointed north of where they were, then swung around in a big arc. “And all around us is the very first racing track. I thought it was a fitting spot, plus I love coming here.” She grinned. “It’s fun to wind up the old men in boiler suits that bustle about the museum. They see this” she gestured at herself “and make assumptions that I take great pleasure in dispelling for them.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley really liked Pepper. “Right then, let’s see what you can do with this old lady then!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They spent the rest of the morning with Crowley carefully taking apart Pepper’s go-karting skills, and teaching her how to get the most out of the vintage car. He taught her all manner of tactics they could use if they were being followed, and how to spot if they were as well. As it approached lunchtime, it was clear she was getting tired. She’d held up pretty well, but the car was made before power steering was even on the drawing board so it was a heavy beast to lug around a track. They called it a day, and headed to the M&amp;S over the road to grab some sandwiches which they took back to the park and ate on a bench. Crowley showed Pepper how the earpiece worked, before offering to drive home as she was so tired. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As long as you keep it below ninety.” She joked. “You have no idea how hard it is to get new tyres for this thing. Oh, and the fuel gauge doesn’t work, but we should have enough to get home.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The ride home was more peaceful. Pepper mainly chatted about her family and her unconventional start in life before falling asleep against the window. Crowley simply smiled, and enjoyed driving the car. It was funny, but driving it felt so intuitive, like he’d been doing it for his whole life. It was the first time he’d really connected with a car, and while he’d never bothered owning one due to his lifestyle and location, he realised he’d make an exception for this one. This car had a soul, and she purred under his hands. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair was at a bit of a loss today. He had nothing planned, other than to relax at home before the upcoming signing event, perhaps try and catch Crowley in an actual conversation that he wouldn't cringe about afterwards... So he’d been disappointed when he found out that Crowley had gone out with Pepper. Something about teaching her to drive. Frankly he was surprised Pepper had agreed to it. She was a wonderful driver as far as he was concerned, but she seemed to like Crowley, and Crowley seemed to like her. Alistair felt a pang of what he was ashamed to realise was jealousy. Pepper was out there spending the day with Crowley, and Alistair hadn’t even managed a couple of hours with the man yet. He was like a ghost, but one that seemed to be possessing him from afar because he hadn’t been able to get him out of his head. All he could think about was running his fingers through that seductively tousled coppery hair, or tracing the wing shaped scar he’d seen across Crowley’s back. Now he knew what Crowley looked like under his clothes it wasn’t hard for his mind’s eye to linger on what he might look like with just that ridiculous site jacket, pants, and the boots. It was rather distracting. The man was an enigma. He seemed so calm and confident, yet there was a restless energy about him that Alistair found he wanted to unleash. He knew, logically, Crowley must be fairly dangerous to be so highly regarded in his world, but Alistair was having trouble seeing it and he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. He felt his heart leap when he saw the Bentley coming down the street. Not that he’d been watching for it, just… thinking about his next book while he gazed out the window. He just so happened to be gazing in that direction. It was bound to happen. He decided it was time for another cup of tea, and he would go down and get one himself this time. He managed to time it so he was coming down the stairs just as Crowley emerged from the garage. Barely had to pause at all. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Still in one piece after a day with Pepper in the car?” He joked nervously from the staircase where he’d stopped. Crowley stopped and looked up to where the voice had come from and Alistair felt himself blush. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Huh? Oh. Yeah. She’s a quick study. Fell asleep on the way home. She seemed very excited about being my assistant. Seems to think I’m some sort of spy.” Crowley said, the corners of his mouth curling up in delightfully sly manner. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair rather liked the sound of that. “Oh, but my dear, I don’t think even James Bond could fight with those tight trousers on.” He retorted, and noted Crowley’s expression go blank. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley cleared his throat. “Right. Oh! Um, I have something for you, wait there.” He said and strode off towards the basement stairs. Alistair came down the last few steps and stopped, standing on the bottom step. Crowley returned quickly, with a small box in his hand, coming to stand in front of Alistair. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Got you this.” He said simply, and offered him the box. Alistair’s heart skipped quite a few beats at the sight of this alluring man standing so close, looking up at him and offering him something that could easily be seen as a ring box, if you were that way inclined, and squinted a little. He blinked a few times, but knew that that was a sight that he would be replaying for himself quite a few times. He took the box and opened it. He knew it wasn’t going to be a ring, but he was a little perplexed to see a small golden brooch shaped like a pair of wings. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh! It’s very lovely. Um, why?” He asked, slightly disconcerted by looking into his own reflection in those blasted sunglasses Crowley seemed to wear constantly. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley seemed to start as if he had been lost in his own thoughts. “Right, should have probably lead with that. It’s a panic alarm. You can wear it and if you get into any trouble you just press it and I'll come running.” He said. He was still standing close enough that Alistair could see the delicious way his neck stretched out as he looked up at him. He was glad he was holding the box because he wasn’t sure if he would be able to resist reaching out to touch, with it being so close to his hands. He longed to trail one finger down, following the pulse of his jugular, maybe even feel it leap under his touch. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I picked this one out because I know you like angel themed stuff. Or at least whoever designed your library does.” Crowley said, drawing Alistair out of his fantasies. Crowley suddenly looked worried as if he’d just realised he’d missed a critical piece of information. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’d picked this out specially for him… Alistair couldn’t help the smile that took over his face at that moment. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Guilty as charged I’m afraid.” He said, and in a rare brave impulse he held the box out towards Crowley. “Would you?” He asked quietly. Crowley looked panicked for a brief moment, and Alistair worried he’d gone too far, but Crowley seemed to recover and reached out to take the pin out of the box. Ever so gently, Crowley lifted Alistair’s lapel, and pushed the pin through. He leaned in close as he flipped the fabric around to get to the back. Alistair’s heart was pounding in his ears as he realised he could hear Crowley breathing he was so close. Alistair took a deep, slow breath, inhaling the scent of spices and whatever that earthy note was that he still couldn’t place. He could just feel the brush of those graceful hands on his chest where he was fixing the back of the pin in place. His hands had dropped as Crowley leant in, and one was gripping the box tightly while the other had latched onto the hem of his jacket in an attempt to keep them from reaching out and around the enigmatic man stood before him, and drawing him close. Crowley’s fingers were nimble, and Alistair reflected that they’d have no trouble untangling his bow tie should they be so inclined.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There” Crowley said as he smoothed down the lapel, his voice slightly croaky. As Alistair looked down, Crowley looked up towards him and oh! Suddenly their faces were so close, noses almost touching. Alistair felt his eyes drag down to that wild mouth and he knew he was going to lean in whether it was a good idea or not because Crowley’s hand was still flat on his chest and his lips were barely parted and he wasn’t moving away…</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Footsteps rang out loudly on the tiled floor and Crowley jerked back just as Michael came out from the back of the house. She had her face buried in her phone. Alistair glanced over at Crowley, but he was was sporting his usual frown and slouching away from him with his arms crossed across his chest as if nothing had happened. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Michael glanced up and saw them. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah perfect. We need to go over the plan for tomorrow, so it’s good you’re both here.” She said, so absorbed in what she was typing on her phone that she completely missed the way both men were breathing heavily, and Alistair’s flushed expression radiated his panic at being caught almost in the act.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course! Yes. I was just on my way to the kitchen to make some… tea. Right. Care to join us? Me! Us? In the kitchen. For tea. And to talk about tomorrow. Both of you.” Alistair suggested, looking back and forth between them. And if his voice was a bit higher than normal, well they mercifully didn’t mention it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once in the kitchen Alistair busied himself with making tea. Mostly so he could take a moment to calm down as he filled the kettle, the familiar pattern of movements soothing. He turned to see that Crowley had seated himself as far away from him as possible, placing Michael between them. He squashed down his disappointment and retrieved three mugs and a small glass teapot. A white mug with wings for handles for himself, A delicate bone china mug with a watercolour robin painted on for Michael, and for Crowley he put out a black version of his own winged mug. He also placed a plate in the middle of the island with a strange, clawed contraption on it, and a jar of sugar with a teaspoon. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair looked over to see Crowley inspecting the mug curiously. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We all have our own mugs, and that was the only spare one. It came as a pair with mine.” He huffed. “Now, what tea do you drink?” He could do tea. His hands knew what they were doing, which was fortunate because his head was currently swooping through the stratosphere and showing no intention of returning any time soon. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Coffee.” Crowley responded with disdain. Alistair couldn’t have that, this was tea time, not coffee time. He thought for a moment. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Humour me dear boy, I think I have one you might like.” He said, and turned to the cupboard behind him. He opened it to reveal a plethora of tea caddies and boxes. Crowley merely raised an eyebrow at the extent of the collection. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair passed Michael an Assam teabag which she popped into her mug. For himself he selected a box of Oolong that he carefully spooned into the teapot, before pulling down a box from the top shelf, and placing a pinch of the contents into a small perforated steel ball on a chain which he placed into Crowley’s mug. The kettle had done its thing and so Alistair brought it over and filled the two mugs and the teapot. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lapsang Souchong. Give it a couple of minutes to steep and see what you think.” Alistair instructed him. “If you think it’s too strong I can give you some milk, although it’s generally drunk black.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Michael was busy setting out some papers on the island, so Crowley picked up his mug and cradled it in his hands to give himself something to hold on to. The tea smelt strong. Smoky in fact, which was perfect for driving out the scent of Alistair from his mind. He’d been foolish again, but Alistair had done that achingly beautiful smile he did when Crowley had told him he’d chosen the winged pin for him specifically, and then he’d been totally powerless against the look Alistair gave him when he asked him to put the pin on him. Puppies could learn a thing or two from that look. Crowley knew he was utterly pathetic. It was all he could do not to let his hands shake picking up the bloody pin. He’d had to lean in close to get the blasted back onto it, and he’d felt Alistair’s breath on his temple. He was acutely aware that his face was mere centimetres from the fabric of the jacket and he was almost overwhelmed by the urge to close that gap and see what it felt like against his cheek. Then he’d caught his scent - a soft blend of linen and vanilla and orange blossom that would forever remind him of that moment. That moment when he looked up to find Alistair’s face <em>right there, </em>and he’d forgotten to take his hand off the wonderfully broad chest in front of him so he felt Alistair’s breath catch as he looked up, saw the flicker of eyes down to his lips (it was fascinating where people’s eyes went when they didn’t feel watched), and he knew if he just tilted his head up slightly… </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley shivered at the thought, nearly spilling the tea in his hands and bringing himself back to the moment. Michael had saved him from making a huge mistake. He couldn’t get involved with clients. It was the one rule he would never even bend. He sipped his tea. The Lapsang Sou-whatsit did turn out to be rather good, it had a rich, strong flavour that he savoured. Crowley looked up from his mug to see Alistair looking at him hopefully, but before he could convey his verdict Michael spoke. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right, tomorrow we’re headed South of the river to a little place called ‘Bastille Books’. The owner there is a veteran for book signings, and usually draws a large crowd. We’ll do the usual ‘thank you for coming’ speech then set you up at the table. I’ll meet Newt there to set up in the morning.” She said. “And Alistair, after this we <em>will</em> be setting up some interviews.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll come with you in the morning. So I can check the place over.” Crowley said, placing his tea strainer on the plate next to the clawed contraption that now held Michael’s tea bag in its grasp. She looked offended. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jean-Claude is highly respected within the literary community Mr. Crowley, and if you pull another stunt like yesterday then it will seriously harm Alistair’s public image, which we need in order to sell books.” She scolded. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Still coming.” Crowley stated. “He can’t write any more books if he’s dead.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was dramatic, and it made his chest squeeze weirdly just thinking about it, but it had the desired affect. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’re leaving at nine thirty. The signing is at two.” She glared at him, picked up her tea and left with her papers under the arm. Crowley grinned at Alistair.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">…Who was pale as a ghost, staring out of the window and gripping the edge of the counter hard enough that his knuckles had gone white. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Oh fuck.</em> Crowley thought. He’d been so callous about the situation, forgetting that Alistair wasn’t used to being presented with the reality of his work. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ll be fine Alistair.” He tried. “That’s why I’m going ahead. To check the layout, to assess the risks, to do the worrying so you don’t have to. I’ll be there, I’ll look after you.” Alistair dragged his eyes round to look at Crowley, but all he could see was those infernal sunglasses, just big, round, black holes that he felt he might fall into and never return. Crowley noticed the panicked expression, the way Alistair’s eyes were flickering around his face, searching for something to latch onto. He reached up and pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and looked Alistair straight in the eye. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, it’ll be ok. I’m a pro, remember? You will come to no harm while I’m there. That’s why you pay me the big bucks, to take the hit for you.” The relief on Alistair’s face as he locked on to Crowley’s commanding gaze was so effusive that Crowley could feel it seeping into his bones. <em>How the fuck does he do that?</em> He wondered. The lighting under the kitchen cupboards behind him was making Alistair’s pale hair do the glowing halo thing again. <em>This is ridiculous. How can such a prissy man look so damned angelic?</em> Crowley wondered. He realised that he knew the whole jumping-in-the-path-of-the-bullet-human-shield-style thing was part of his job, but he’d never really knew that he’d do it without any hesitation until now. And there was a thought he definitely needed to examine later. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tea’s good, by the way.” He managed to force out as he dropped his sunglasses back into place. “I mostly avoided tea as it always tasted so weak and bland, but this one’s got character. I might be persuaded.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A complicated look passed over Alistair’s face that Crowley couldn’t quite work out, but before he had much of a chance to think about it Pepper came stumbling into the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What a day!” She said, flopping down onto the stool between them. “This one here really knows how to handle himself!” She said to Alistair, jerking her thumb towards the sprawling Crowley who promptly choked on his tea. Alistair merely raised one eyebrow and gave a weak smile, glad of the distraction. Pepper launched into a blow-by-blow account of the driving lesson, all the while insisting Crowley must be a secret agent. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well that’s my cover blown then, thanks partner! Thought you said you could keep a secret?” He said, waving his free hand at her in mock exasperation. She just rolled her eyes at him and carried on. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley decided to slink away before she embarrassed him any further. As he left with his tea he glanced back to see Alistair giving him a tentative smile. He returned it before heading off downstairs to find out as much as he could about the shop they were heading to tomorrow. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair had another broken night. He just couldn’t get the image of Crowley looking up at him like that out of his head, and now he’d had a clear look at his beautiful hazel eyes he couldn’t help but picture him without the sunglasses. He wondered what sort of expression had been in those eyes at the time. In the kitchen he’d been stunned by the surety, the complete confidence, but also the care that he’d seen when Crowley let him see his eyes. It had been breathtaking. Alistair tried to convince himself that Crowley was a professional, of course he cared about all the people he protected. The comment about the tea had seemed so pointed, a gentle way of letting him down, but he couldn’t help it, he was becoming infatuated with this cryptic, insouciant, devilishly handsome man who was tasked with keeping him from harm. He finally fell asleep, the events of the day coming together in a particularly vivid dream about being held captive and awaiting execution in a Parisian prison, before being rescued by a dashing figure all in black and Bordeaux, with fire-bright hair, smirking lips and disobedient hips. He woke up panting with his hand already sliding down into his pyjamas, hating himself as he did it, but knowing he couldn’t stop. He was weak. He was pathetic. He was bland tea when Crowley wanted something with more character. As the bittersweet wave of endorphins crashed over him, he lay gasping for breath, before breaking down and weeping quietly to himself until he once again fell asleep. He would clear up the mess in the morning. It was the least he could do to atone for his moment of weakness, for his latest entry in his catalogue of sins. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh Alistair. Trust a writer to read far too far into the simplest of things. </p>
<p>Brooklands is an awesome place. An open air museum (mostly, the aircraft section and the bus museum are inside), it is crawling with groups of old men in oily overalls tinkering. I wholeheartedly recommend it for a day out when lockdown lifts. </p>
<p>As for the Bentley, I have no idea if it's capable of any of this, so I plead creative licence, and Crowley's influence. </p>
<p>Oh, and Alistair's little FSUP Jacket fantasy? Shamelessly stolen from the disgustingly talented <a href="https://gingerhaole.tumblr.com/post/190666058872/in-honor-of-my-books-finally-going-out-enjoy-a/"> Ginger (Haole).</a> Because, well, damn.<br/><a href="https://gingerhaole.tumblr.com/post/613774605301301248/another-coloring-page-for-you-guys-this-was-one">(There's a version you can colour in as well if you want...) </a></p>
<p>Those of you that have seen the film can probably guess what's coming up next 😁</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Boundaries</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all so much for all the lovely comments and kudos! I have been wavering between liking this story and thinking it's utter self indulgent drivel so it's good to know some other people are enjoying it 🥰</p><p>Now, you remember that cover image?...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley made sure he was in the entrance hall well ahead of time. Alistair was avoiding him this morning for some reason, and had looked so shocked to see him in the kitchen so early he’d promptly turned around, blushing, and headed straight back up the stairs again mumbling something about leaving his spectacles in his room. Crowley hadn’t been able to catch him again, and he’d wanted to make sure he was ok before he left him with Uriel for the morning. He was sat at the bottom of the stairs trying not to let it get to him, when a shadow fell across his hands and he refocused his eyes to the bright red shoes beyond his phone screen. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well if it isn’t my favourite little war bird.” He drawled, not looking up. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Get in the car you patronising old serpent.” She teased, turning and heading for the garage. In a couple of long strides he caught up with her, tapping her on the opposite shoulder. He used her confusion at turning to see nobody there to slip past her on the other side, momentarily walking backwards so he could point both hands at her like pistols, before whirling around and heading for the car. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hope you’ve got your earpiece!” He called out behind him. Pepper waved it in his face as she got to the car, sticking her tongue out. Michael walked briskly past them, tutting, with Anathema following with her massive diary in one hand, and a large bag slung over her shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shotgun.” Michael said lazily, face once again buried in her phone as she walked around to the passenger side. She opened the door, pulled the seat forward and looked at Crowley. “Well? Shall we?” She said, gesturing for him to get in. Crowley looked at Pepper and made a mocking face before meandering slowly around the car and climbing in the back after Anathema. This earned him a grin from Pepper and another satisfying tut from Michael. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It didn’t take long for them to skirt the river, cross Vauxhall bridge and head down into Clapham. Pepper pulled up and stopped outside a decent sized bookshop on a bustling high street. Michael got out and walked around the back of the car without pulling the seat forward to release Crowley, grabbed a load of tubes from the boot and walked off into the shop. Crowley trailed after Anathema straight to the room at the back of the bookshop that served as a store room and office. </span>
  <span class="s1">Newt was already in there moving around boxes with ‘Pearly Gates Publishing’ stamped on the side, looking slightly bewildered. His face broke into a relieved smile as he saw Anathema striding through the door, which turned wary as he took in the imposing figure all dressed in figure-hugging black behind her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Newt!” Anathema said, and he snapped his head back around to her, and once again the dopey grin was back. “Newt this is Crowley, Alistair’s new bodyguard. We brought him in after the… well… the box.” She said, glancing at his hand. He grabbed his finger protectively. The wound had healed just fine, but it still made him wince to think about it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s going to have a look around, but don’t worry, he’s pretty self-sufficient.” She continued. “Are these all the books?” She asked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Er… yes.” Newt said, still looking apprehensively at the tall man in sunglasses, who was managing to loom and slouch at the same time. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley threw his coat down on a chair. “You the one that disarmed that vile thing?” He drawled, fixing Newt with a shrouded stare. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I sup.. I suppose… Sort of.” He stammered out, feeling very much like a small rodent caught in a snake’s hypnotic gaze. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Newt’s got a brilliant memory, but don’t let him near your phone. He has some sort of static field, technology really doesn’t like him.” Anathema said, her hand coming to rest gently on Newt’s arm. Crowley saw the way his eyes unfocused at her touch and squirrelled that juicy nugget away for another day. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Noted. Good job you got there first then Newt.” Crowley said, giving him a nod before striding off into the depths of the bookshop. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The place was a security nightmare. It was all little alcoves and parallel rows of shelves, dead-ends all over the place and no clear line of sight anywhere. The owner had cleared a section in the centre where he’d set up a table, and the space in front was clearly intended for the crowd so that blocked their main exit. To one side was a large, plain, cloth backdrop and some lights. He prowled around, noting the door to the back room where Newt and Anathema were busy covering the table with the boxes of spare books that the publishing house had brought in. Dead end. He carried on his tour until he found a fire door in the back corner of the shop, hidden between two large bookcases. He reached out to press the handle, but a deep voice bellowed at him with a strong French accent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stop! Can you not read?! For the love of God don’t press that ‘andle! You’ll set off the fire alarm and the ‘ole place will get soaked. My stock will be ruined!” He turned to see a portly man with an impressive mane of dark hair that flowed into an equally dark beard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jean-Claude I presume?” Crowley surmised. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oui, and I beg you Monsieur, please step away from that door. It is for use only in emergencies!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s the other side?” Crowley asked, studying the door. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, it is just an alleyway between us and the mini market be’ind. They use it for stock delivery.” He said dismissively. “Are you the photographer? We ’ave been waiting all morning for you to arrive!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No mate, not a photographer. Security.” Crowley said, before striding past him and back out the front door. After some negotiation with the owners of the mini market over the back he found Pepper and brought her in on his plan. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With the bookshop set up with posters of Alistair’s books all over the windows, and Anathema glancing nervously at the photographer and her assistant who had eventually shown up, Crowley and Pepper left to go pick up Alistair himself. People were already starting to arrive, and Jean-Claude was letting some of them in for last minute purchases before he shut the shop for Alistair’s arrival. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair startled once again when he went to get in the car and saw Crowley already in the back. He was slouched, one arm resting along the back of the bench seat they were to share, looking out of the window with his other arm propped up on his knee, his fingertips pressed to his lips as if deep in thought. It was all very Rodin-esque and it exposed his strong jawline and profile wonderfully, not to mention the way his jacket fell open at the side, and Alistair could appreciate the way his charcoal shirt pulled so tantalisingly across his torso. Alistair forced himself to look away and climbed into the empty seat, half praying for a smooth ride, half hoping any bumps and jumps would nudge them closer. Crowley withdrew the arm across the back of the seat as he got in, much to Alistair's dismay, and glanced over to check he was wearing the pin, before giving him a brief smile as Uriel climbed into the front seat. She held out a bag to Crowley. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tracy sent a packed lunch for the troops. There’s a sandwich in there for you as well.” She said reluctantly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley settled the bag on his lap and pulling out a wrapped sandwich. Thick cut ham with some sort of apple chutney, he discovered. Crowley used the journey back to devour the sandwich, licking the last of the chutney off his fingers as they reached the edge of Clapham. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good, isn’t it?” Alistair said, and Crowley turned to see he looked rather… flushed. “The sandwich, I mean. Tracy thinks up the most wonderful combinations. I’m amazed at how she always seems to know just what I fancy.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before Crowley could respond, he felt the car slow down and looked out the front. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Er…” Pepper said. There were a lot of people outside the shop, despite the drizzle, who were all turning excitedly to the car. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pepper, drive up as close as you can, and keep the engine running. Remember what I told you earlier, and any problems, you know how to get me.” Crowley said urgently, handing the packed lunch bag to Alistair. “Uriel, when we get out you hold them off. I’ll get out next and we can shield Alistair between us so we can get him through the door as quickly as possible and hopefully without getting soaked. Got it?” His tone had changed now he was on duty, and it allowed for no argument. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever.” Uriel said, simply. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A cheer went up when Pepper pulled up outside the shop from all the people waiting in raincoats and under umbrellas as the British weather lived up to its reputation, and bar the usual need to tread on a few toes, they managed to get Alistair in through the door without a hitch, and without getting too wet. Jean-Claude had shut the shop earlier, so it was only people he knew inside when they got in. They got Alistair settled in the back room pre-signing a few books with a cup of tea, while Crowley left Uriel in front of the door so nobody could enter without being seen. Crowley went back to the front of the shop, and touched his earpiece. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pepper, radio check.” He said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Read you loud and clear!” Came the enthusiastic reply. “Valkyrie is in position and settling down for the long haul. Over!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pepper you don’t need to say ‘over’.” He chided gently. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, but it’s more fun! Over and out!” She said gleefully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s… argh, never mind. Just keep your eyes open.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wilco.” She said, and he groaned at the grin he could hear behind it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Suddenly he heard running and turned to see Anathema racing towards him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quick...” she gasped, “Alistair... come and see...” Crowley raced to the backroom to find a stony faced Alistair, pacing, frowning at the table. Uriel was stood by the door holding a piece of paper.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What happened.” He snarled. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nobody came in or out since Alistair went in. He found this tucked into the first book laid out for signing<em>.” </em>Uriel said, handing him the paper. It was another letter. Another poorly cut out jumble of newsprint, spewing hatred at the most kind-hearted person on the planet. Crowley's face twisted in his fury. Newt was on the other side of the table and backing into the wall. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It.. it wasn’t there when I opened all the boxes earlier!” He squeaked as Anathema returned with Michael. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Which means they came in here while we were picking Alistair up.” Crowley growled. “This is a warning. There’s no way he can go out there now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?! And what are we supposed to tell his fans? We’ll have a riot!” Michael snapped. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not my problem. It’s not safe to go out there.” Crowley argued. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is a critical time! If we don’t get him out there now we’ll struggle to get enough hype for the book. This is a big event! We can’t just leave!” Michael was furious. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You can, and we will. This is not a little game for publicity, this is a deranged person out there who has chosen Alistair as their target, and it is my job to stop that from happening. So go out there and cancel this whole thing.” He hissed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t understand Crowley, if Alistair doesn’t go out there, we lose the fans. If we lose the fans we lose the readership, we lose the bookshops selling his books, we lose everything!” She shouted. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And what if that scumbag is out there eh? What if they're waiting out there right now, ready to go through with their threat? Where does that leave you all hmm?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“I’ll go out there.” Came a quiet voice from the corner. Crowley spun round, incredulous. “I’ll be fine. Like you said, you’ll be there, and I trust you.” And now Alistair was looking at him with those impossibly serene blue eyes. He’d recovered from the shock, and now the steely determination was coming out. </span> <span class="s1">"They called me a 'southern pansy', as if I were some common wilting flower. I think we need to show them that I am not just 'a' southern pansy," Alistair adjusted his bow tie and straightened his back, eyes glittering with icy determination, "I am <em>the S</em>outhern Pansy."</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> And what could Crowley say to that? He knew it was a bad idea, but this is what Alistair wanted, and he was increasingly finding he couldn’t say no to him. Not when he was going around looking at him like that. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine.” He hissed. “But I’ll be watching. Uriel, I want you by the front door. You see anyone you don’t like the look of don’t hesitate in throwing them out.” She looked him over pointedly before giving a small nod. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The event started well, the first few in through the door were clearly seasoned at this, and waited patiently enough for Alistair to come out. When the crowd had sufficiently gathered, Anathema brought Alistair out from the back room and he said a few words of appreciation. Jean-Claude stepped up beside him and spread his hands.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you for coming you wonderful people! We have such a treat in store for you today! Once Monsieur Fell has signed the first two 'undred books we will have a short break to allow for photos to be taken with him!” He said to the crowd, beaming as he gestured to the photo area off to one side. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley saw Alistair baulk at the announcement. He started to step forward, but Alistair gave him a low wave to stay put, then straightened his already stiff pose, clearly intending on going through with this unexpected plan. Only Michael didn’t look surprised. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And so Alistair set out on his charm offensive, signing books, t-shirts, all manner of objects that were thrust towards him. He accepted cards each time with a delighted smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes and made them twinkle. Anathema intercepted anything chunkier than a card and handed it to Newt, who carefully took it into the back room to be inspected later. Crowley was mesmerised. He marvelled at how Alistair was able to keep throwing around that ethereal smile, utterly enchanting each and every person who approached. Alistair was broadcasting a general aura of goodwill to the point where he positively glowed, and Crowley was horrified to find himself being sucked in despite the rain outside doubling its efforts to put a dampener on the whole event. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But then the queue in front of him got to the two hundredth person, and Jean-Claude stepped forward to announce the photo session would be starting, to a chorus of excited squeals. Those that had already had books signed had gathered to one side, and were now ushered forwards. Alistair was looking unsure, but once again glanced at Crowley and seemed to gain confidence. He stood up, rolled his shoulders and neck, and walked over to the backdrop. He let the photographer position him, then Anathema let the first person come forward. One by one they all stood, beaming, next to Alistair as the photographer snapped away. Some of them started gathering together in groups to speed the process up, and Alistair suddenly found he was dealing with two or three people at a time. Michael started organising groups who would flank him both sides, all squeezing in to get in the photo. Then one group had to be split as they started arguing who would stand next to him. Crowley could see the crowd starting to get agitated and Alistair looking less and less comfortable with all the jostling. The noise from the crowd changed as they all got more and more frustrated that it was taking so long, or started arguing over who was going to be in a group with whom. All through this Alistair remained outwardly calm. Crowley was fidgety, bouncing on his feet, his adrenaline spiking. He could see this going very wrong very quickly and was itching to get them out of there. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pepper? Get the engine running.” He growled into his microphone. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then the tension snapped as four people all wanted to be in the same photo but all thought <em>they</em> should be the one standing next to him, and all of a sudden there was pushing and shoving around Alistair who was now looking very frightened and before anyone could react the whole crowd began to surge forwards, all yelling at each other to get out of the way, leave him alone, don’t ruin it for the rest of us…</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley hesitated, then someone got shoved straight into Alistair who stumbled backwards and the whole group went over taking the backdrop down around them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley dived forward and began hauling people off of him. Uriel was fighting her way through the crowd towards them and Jean-Claude was trying his best to hold the angry mob back. Crowley yelled at Anathema to get herself into the back room and lock the door until it all quietened down, and she fled. He shoved a man coming towards them with so much force that he was sent hurtling back into the crowd behind, taking several others with him. Crowley finally got down to Alistair and hauled him to his feet, but he was woozy. Making a snap decision Crowley swept him up, arms under his shoulders and knees, holding him tightly to his chest, and raced for the fire exit. A woman in the crowd got shoved and stumbled backwards towards them so he squared his shoulders and leant into it, letting their combined weight overpower her momentum, sending her bouncing back into the melee. He reached the fire door and kicked it open, yelling “Door!” at Pepper as he did so, and they stumbled out into the alley behind the shop as the fire alarm began to blare out and the sprinklers kicked in soaking everyone and everything. Pepper was stood under an umbrella, yanking open the car door, her eyes wide at the sight of Crowley gritting his teeth with a semi-lucid Alistair clasped against his chest as he crossed the few long metres in the downpour. She helped him get Alistair into the back of the car before throwing the seat back, leaping in and getting the hell out of there. Alistair huddled against Crowley, sniffing quietly in the back seat as they raced back to the house as quickly as they could. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What..?” Pepper began, but Crowley cut her off. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Later. Good work today Pepper, you really saved us there. Now let’s get us home eh, so we can all dry off.” Crowley said as he wrapped one wet arm protectively around his charge. Pepper set the heaters to max chat, and hit the button to turn the radio on, hoping for something to distract them all. Bonnie Tyler sang about her ideal man, the one she was holding out for, and yeah, OK, that would work. Crowley held onto Alistair, feeling his breathing evening out. Pepper concentrated on the rain-soaked road. </span>
</p><p class="p1">Crowley concentrated on the raindrops streaming across the window. On the blurred lights of London as they raced home. On the rumble of the ancient engine, still audible over the hammering of the rain on the roof. Anything but the fact that Alistair was currently shivering in his arms, gripping tightly to his jacket as if he might be swept away with the downpour if he let go. He had a job to do. He had to remain detached, remain where he could think logically, and absolutely not think about Alistair's bedraggled storm cloud of hair just below his chin, and how strong his urge was to bury his fingers in it. Not until later, anyway. </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When they got back to the house, Pepper and Crowley helped Alistair into the kitchen and sat him at the island. They retreated to one side where Crowley gave Pepper a brief whispered synopsis of the event, masked by the sound of the water filling the kettle. Pepper was fuming. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I need to go shoot some zombies now. If you need me, I’ll be in my room.” She growled, stomping off up the stairs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tracy had been given the afternoon off as they were expecting to all be out, so Crowley glided around the kitchen in silence, getting out the mug and the teapot from yesterday, and opening the tea cupboard. He scanned the boxes, came to a decision, put the teapot back and pulled out a box of chamomile tea, popping one bag in Alistair’s cup. He stood with his back to Alistair, leaning over the tea as it was steeping, hands spread wide on the counter and fingers tapping away in frustration. He took a few deep breaths to calm down before letting his shoulders drop and turning to Alistair with the mug. Alistair hadn’t moved. He was still sat on the other side of the island with his hands in his lap, looking so very lost. He looked up at the sound of the china clinking quietly on the polished granite worktop as the mug was placed before him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Drink.” Crowley said gently. Shaking hands came up to try and grasp the mug, but didn’t lift it. Crowley walked swiftly around to Alistair, placing his sunglasses down on the worktop. He leaned backwards against the island, next to Alistair, before gently wrapping his hands over the ones already on the mug and lifting it towards Alistair's lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The touch seemed to wake Alistair up a bit and he looked up to see Crowley’s golden brown eyes filled with concern.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh…” He said softly, before suddenly feeling the heat in his hands. He winced and Crowley felt Alistair’s hands flinch under his own. He jerked his hands away looking even more worried, and Alistair quickly put the mug down before flexing his fingers in the air. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shit, sorry, forgot the mug would be hot. My fault, don’t really feel the heat - asbestos hands.” Crowley said with a nervous laugh, holding his palms up awkwardly. He leaned back slightly, gripping the edge of the island worktop either side of his hips. He realised he was standing just a bit too close again, close enough that their knees were almost touching. His weight was already on the opposite leg, and he had a brief internal struggle as he resisted the impulse to let his free leg swing towards Alistair and let the sensitive patch on the outside of their knees brush together. He could probably pass it off as just fidgeting. <em>I bet he would feel warm.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair picked up his mug again, by the handle this time. His other hand drifted up distractedly to rest on Crowley’s stomach, and Alistair absent-mindedly patted it as he spoke into his tea. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not to worry dear boy, probably the jolt I needed.” The hand slid away down over his hip and back to Alistair's lap, and Crowley resumed breathing. “I think I’ll… yes. I think I’ll head upstairs and have a lie down. I’m sorry to have been such a bother today. I don’t mean to cause such a fuss. And… thank you. For saving me.” Alistair looked up into Crowley’s eyes with such an open, raw expression that he couldn’t take it and had to look away. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t thank me. ‘M just doing my job.” He grumbled, inspecting the leather of his boots. “And besides, You’re no bother. You’re a breeze compared to the people I normally deal with. I’m used to people who have a reason why someone is out to get them, but you’re basically an angel. Which does make my job much nicer, but also harder because I can’t see why anyone would ever want to do anything to hurt you so it’s more difficult to work out who they are…” He realised he was rambling and stopped. “Anyway. Like I said, angel. Now. Do you need help ascending up to the heavens, or will you manage?” He asked, turning to look at Alistair again with a gentle smile. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair had stopped listening after Crowley called him an angel. He tuned back in to see a relaxed smile, and delighted in the lack of sunglasses because now he could see the wonderful spark of mischief in Crowley’s eyes that accompanied it. He quickly ran back over what he’d missed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm? Oh I should be ok now. But I suppose if I reside in heaven, does that make your quarters down in the cellar, hell?” Alistair was an author, and in his emotionally drained state he could feel the beginnings of a Story coming on. “And therefore, are you a demon? How interesting, an angel and a demon teaming up. Maybe I should put it in my next book. I could have them save the world together.” Crowley laughed at that, and Alistair thought it the most wonderful thing he’d heard in a long time as he smiled into his tea. He sighed as the flavour calmed him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know Crowley, I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before. I’ve led such a sheltered life - I grew up on a farm for goodness' sake!” Alistair said, sadly. “I’ve managed to get this far in life without unduly upsetting anyone, even if I do have a reputation for being a little bit… particular, at times. But I’ve never done anything thus far to make someone actually want to cause me harm. I’ve never even been in a real fight!” Alistair looked like he was about to cry again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve done nothing to deserve this.” Crowley said firmly. “Nothing. There will always be angry people in the world who want to blame someone else for their own problems, and unfortunately this one seems to have latched onto you as a way to displace their own failings. Believe me, I’ve seen enough crap in my life to know that angry people will always be angry and nothing you can do will change that.” Crowley's grimaced, then carried on. “Tell me about the farm. You don’t look the type that grew up covered in shit.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair snorted at that. “No it wasn’t that sort of farm. More of an orchard really, and a rather lovely one aptly called Eden Farm. Father was ahead of the curve when it came to more gentle farming practises so the orchard was always full of wildflowers and all manner of life, even in winter. I used to sit up in the trees and make up stories. It was idyllic…” Alistair trailed off into his reverie. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What sort of trees? What did they grow?” Crowley tried to keep the happy memory going.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, apples! They still do. Technically I own it now, but my father is still there, making sure the cider is still up to his standard. He named it Eve’s Downfall after my mother, and some days she even sees the funny side of it. You know I was never allowed to taste it? Not until I was grown up enough. Mother was very strict on that. No scrumping either!” Alistair’s face momentarily transformed into a strict scowl, as if imitating someone, before smiling fondly again. “I missed it terribly when I was sent away for school, but father decided I needed a 'proper' education, so off to boarding school it was, where I had the most wonderful English teacher. It’s really thanks to her that I have all this today. It took my father a long time to see the merit in my chosen profession.” His smile slipped. “Although I can’t imagine what they would have said if I told them I was going to become a bodyguard!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your childhood sounds wonderful.” Crowley said gently. Rural life hadn’t really suited him, but the world needs all sorts he’d decided long ago. “And I doubt if Sam cared what I did for a living.” He said without thinking. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“'Sam'?” Alistair looked at him curiously. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Ah bollocks. Why did he have to say anything?! </em>“Yeah, Sam was my adopted dad. We didn't get along. No idea who my biological parents were, or why they chose to give me away. Any hope of finding out was lost in a fire. Samael and Lilith Morningstar were the ones that took me on. Mum was... Lilith I mean, she was the real deal, a proper saint.” <em>Fuck why was he telling Alistair this? He’d barely told anyone this!</em> “She is probably the only person who ever actually loved me, but she died before I reached eleven.” <em>Aaaand there it is. He doesn’t need your sob story knobhead. </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh Crowley, I’m so sorry. And... Sam?” Alistair's free hand raised to rest over his heart.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Like I said. Angry people will always be angry. Believe me, there's no change you could make that will fix a fault that doesn't lie in you.” Crowley looked down at his boots, realising with a cringe that his naked eyes would be broadcasting the emotional rollercoaster he was feeling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anyway, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, you’ll probably put it in a book or something. Go on, be off with you Angel. Get some rest.” Crowley chuckled nervously. The affectionate smile that breezed over Alistair’s face caused his hand to slip off the counter as he blushed furiously.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, I think a lie down with a good book would be just the ticket right now.” Alistair said, spinning his stool slowly the other way so he could stand up. As he walked out he paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looked back at Crowley.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, for a foul fiend, you’re really rather nice.” He said softly, and turned away before Crowley had a chance to stop blushing enough to correct him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair did a lot of thinking that night, trying to sort out the confusing mess he had thought his way into. He was undoubtedly feeling things for Crowley that he knew he shouldn’t be, but the man was impossible. He had the potential to be dangerous, judging by his action in the bookshop, and yet Alistair felt so safe with him. Crowley had picked him up when he couldn’t cope, without judgement, and Alistair had held on for dear life to the feeling of sanctuary that being in his arms brought over him. He’d held on all the way home in the car, unwilling for the moment to end. He was safe there. Face half buried in black cotton, he didn’t have to think about what had just happened, what could have happened. He could just breathe in Crowley's intoxicating scent. The dampness had only intensified it and Alistair was going mad trying to work out what it was. He could still remember the feeling of those long, graceful, and apparently quite strong arms around him, the way he just gave all of himself so Alistair would be safe, the way he did it without being asked. Nobody had ever done that for him since his mother. Nobody else had valued him like that, thought enough of him to put him so thoroughly above themselves. Alistair didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that Crowley would give not just his life, but his whole self over like that without hesitation, for him. It was terrifying. Was it something he did with all his clients? <em>Surely not</em>. But he had done it, and Alistair was astonished by it. It was like there were two men in there, one who was effortlessly cool and acerbic to the point of rudeness at times, and then underneath it all this sensitive, generous soul that appeared suddenly, then disappeared just as fast. It was incredible that one body could hold so much, but perhaps it couldn't. Perhaps that's why he was so restless. Crowley was a walking paradox that couldn’t even walk comprehensibly and Alistair simply had no way of knowing whether all these little moments between them had meant anything, or whether this was just the way that Crowley operated.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A thought occurred to him, and, well, it was the only way to find out really, wasn’t it?</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley groaned and dragged his hands through his half-dried hair and down his face. What the hell was he doing?! It was a basic rule that you don’t go spilling out your troubles to your employer, it was grossly unprofessional. He was going to have to be extra surly now to rescue his reputation. He retrieved his sunglasses, replacing them on his face, sat down on the stool that Alistair had just vacated, and looked around the kitchen. For such an old house, it was a very modern kitchen. It had white walls and white, gloss units, with a recess running along one edge so there were no handles sticking out and ruining the clean lines. The worktops were large slabs of granite - a galaxy of whites, greys and taupe all dusted with sparkling quartz. Spotlights on the ceiling lined up with the counter and the island to minimise shadows, and the wall cupboards had strip lighting running discretely underneath. The far end of the kitchen had a duck egg blue Aga that gave off a steady, comforting warmth, as well as a smaller hob and oven down one side. Matching coloured tiles created a splash back all around the walls between the worktop and the wall cupboards. It looked so modern, but somehow managed to remain cosy. Crowley toed one boot off and let his socked foot touch the beige tiled floor. Ah, underfloor heating. Sneaky but highly effective. He looked out of the window behind him as he slipped his boot back on. No fabric blinds or curtains to accumulate grease, the window was a large, naked portal to the back garden. The double butler sink was sat underneath it to give the user the best view down the garden while they washed up. Tracy clearly ran a tight ship and everything had a place so the counters were mostly clear of the usual clutter. He glanced at the painted wooden door in the far corner. <em>Probably a pantry.</em> He turned back to the island, taking the bar stool on an impromptu full spin as he did so, because what kind of psychopath doesn't go for a twirl on a spinning chair? The island was quite large, a broad rectangle that inhabited the empty space in the middle of the kitchen. Oversized drawers on one long side, the counter extending out opposite the sink to serve as a breakfast bar. Next to the door that led to the hall was a large, stainless steel fridge, and next to that was a fully-stocked wine fridge. <em>Because a wine cellar isn’t pretentious enough, he has to have a wine fridge too?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The centre of the island in front of him had a large fruit bowl from which Crowley plucked a shiny, red apple. He looked around and found the knife block, selecting a small paring knife and testing the balance out of habit before sitting back down. He began to cut chunks from the apple and eat them off of the knife while he pondered what their next move was going to be. Jean-Claude was going to be beyond pissed that Crowley had set off the sprinklers, but frankly, the prat deserved it. He should have known better than to try and have a photo session and a signing at the same time, and he should have had better crowd control measures in place. Uriel wasn’t going to be happy about being ditched though. Anathema would understand, and Michael had been nowhere to be seen so fuck knows what she was up to, but Uriel… Uriel had a chip on her shoulder that she was nursing, and Crowley suspected that this could well be the catalyst that got her to act. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So he wasn’t exactly surprised when he heard the front door burst open, and furious, stamping footsteps head his way. He had a fairly good idea of what was about to happen when Uriel blazed in, soaking wet and teeth grinding in fury. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You!” She snarled, her eyes glittering with barely contained rage. “What. The fuck. Was that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley remained calm. Diffusion was always the preferred option. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My job. You know, to protect Alistair.” He'd never been much good at preferred options. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stand. Up.” She hissed through gritted teeth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Reeeally…? I just-”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stand. The fuck. Up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley let out an exaggerated sigh, but got to his feet, still holding the apple in one hand, and the knife in the other. Uriel’s hands were balled into fists, and they were shaking. This was not going to go well for her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She shrieked like a banshee and lunged at him. Crowley neatly stepped to the side and allowed her to sail straight past. He cut another slice of his apple and made sure she was looking as he popped it in his mouth. He was deliberately non-confrontational, but that didn’t stop him from being an arse about it. She tried again, swinging a fist towards him, which he neatly deflected with one arm, sending her crashing into the worktop opposite him. She was snarling now, teeth bared as she grabbed a saucepan that was sitting in the sink, swinging it wildly at his head again and again in big, vicious arcs. Each time he stepped back out of range. In frustration she threw it at him, denting the wall by his head before it fell to the ground with an almighty clang. She stood, panting, hesitating as her eyes flicked to the damaged wall and back again. He took the opportunity to step forward briskly, sending her stumbling backwards into the pantry door. She blindly grabbed another utensil from beside the sink as she went past, a ladle it turned out, and raised it to throw, but Crowley got there first. In one smooth movement he threw the paring knife with dreadful precision, embedding it in the pale blue woodwork of the door beside Uriel’s head with a solid thunk. She dropped the ladle and stared at the knife in horror, then back to Crowley who simply took another bite of his apple, leaning casually against the kitchen island. Apparently still not done, she lunged for him once again, and he once again side stepped, but this time sticking one foot out and grabbing her arm on the way past. She tripped on his foot, and he twisted her arm on the way down so she was face down with it held out behind her back. He knelt down with one knee putting a gentle pressure between her shoulder blades and took another bite of his apple. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We about done here?” He asked through his mouthful of fruit. “You’ve got skills Uriel, and I’d like to think that you’re on Alistair’s side rather than your own side, but right now Alistair’s side includes me. Think you can cope with that until we catch this arsehole?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck you.” She spat out, but she stopped struggling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m going to take that as a yes.” He said, removing his knee and standing up before letting go of her wrist. “Good talk. Let’s not do it again.” He said flatly, before striding out of the kitchen, leaving her panting and fuming on the warm tiled floor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">Crowley laid in his bed that night, and gradually let his guard down again. He felt the cold logical disassociation slither back to the depths of his brain. He let the emotions bleed in to where he could hear them. He marvelled at the way that Alistair had curled into him as he carried him away from that utter fiasco of a book signing, the level of unquestioning trust, of belief in him. He remembered how it felt with his arms around him in the car, how it felt to carry his solid, reassuring weight as they escaped, how it felt to have Alistair's arms wrapped around his neck and drawing him close, his face buried in Crowley's neck. And with a fierce longing for something he couldn't name he curled in on himself and eventually fell asleep clutching a pillow tightly as a poor facsimile of a kind angel. </p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After two short rings, Gabriel picked up the phone. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Michael! Always a pleasure. I hope you’re calling me this late with some good news?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s Alistair, Gabriel. I’m worried about him.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh? How so?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s very distracted lately.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Distracted? By what? What on earth has he got himself wrapped up in this time?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not what, Gabriel, who.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Whom</em>, Michael. It’s ‘whom’. Whom is he distracted by then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“His new bodyguard, Crowley.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>What has Alistair got planned I wonder... 🤔</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. But only if you want to.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My apologies for the previous chapter of plot. Normal service will resume below 😋</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next day was bright and sunny again so Crowley went outside to bask in the morning sunshine. He sprawled on the grey teak bench by the dining room doors in the back garden, one arm across the back, the other cradling his black cup full of coffee in his lap. He was in a fuzzy relaxed state from the warmth and a restless night, his muscles tight from yesterday's exertion, his guard down while his night owl brain blearily came online. He tilted his face up to the light, eyes closed as his dark clothes soaked up the scant heat the weak sun was bringing. He let his mind drift as he sank into a sun-baked stupor. Pretty soon it drifted to buttermilk curls and sturdy arms, and a cherubic face nuzzling into his neck. He could picture him clearly in his mind’s eye, recalling the smell of vanilla and orange blossom mixed with linen surprisingly clearly, remembering the way he felt so solid in his arms. He ruminated on the way Alistair’s perpetually disobedient curls framed his face, looking very much like a halo when the light caught them right. A heavenly vision in pale tartan and crushed velvet. He began to wonder what the fussy little man would make of him right now with his jacket hanging open, the shirt beneath pulled tight across his chest. His morning bed head sat atop carelessly flung limbs and the chilly wedge of bare skin that always escaped where his shirts struggled to contain his long torso. Crowley was too zoned out to think too much about the thrilling tingle that ran up and down his spine as he contemplated Alistair’s eyes on him. Would he be scandalised by what he saw, or would the fastidious little bookworm reveal an altogether more lascivious side? Perhaps he would toy with Alistair, tempt him into sin by stretching out his sinuous body, spreading his thighs, rolling his hips as if merely working out the stiffness in his joints (other stiffness would take a rather more hands on approach he would insinuate). Would the fussy angel’s eyes go wide? Would he bite his lip perhaps? Would he look upon Crowley the same way he'd seen him contemplate a pastry selection? Crowley indulged himself, wondering what would appeal to the prim gentleman, what would tempt him to want a taste of the forbidden fruit. He completely forgot about the steaming hot coffee in his lap until he felt the searing heat of it spilling on his leg. He jerked forward, eyes snapping open and hissing through his gritted teeth, yanked fully awake by the scalding pain of the coffee on his thigh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He nearly head butted Alistair in the stomach as he lurched forward. Crowley, still bent over where he sat, looked up open-mouthed in shock over the rim of his skewed sunglasses at the man that, prior to his painful interruption, he had been entirely unprofessionally wondering what it would feel like to seduce in this very scenario. His face was barely a hand’s length from Alistair’s trousers and he had a terrible urge to reduce that gap. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Oh fuck, how long has he been standing there?! Did I say something out loud?! He looks pretty embarrassed… </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a flash of...something, Alistair’s eyes did indeed go wide, but not in the way Crowley had imagined. He had no time to appreciate the way Alistair’s mouth formed such a neat little ‘o’ before he’d grabbed a tartan handkerchief out of his pocket and crouched down, kneeling between Crowley’s far-flung thighs, dabbing at the wet patch and babbling apologies at startling him. Crowley shot upright, panicking at Alistair’s hand pressed firmly to his inner thigh as he tried to soak up the spillage, at just how close Alistair was to his crotch that he realised with a jolt was already half way to being thoroughly inappropriate. Unfortunately nothing about what Alistair was doing was in any way improving that situation. He pressed the handkerchief into a particularly sensitive spot, and Crowley jerked his arm as he pulled away again with a hiss. The remains of the coffee in his cup sloshed over the rim, splashing his wrist and he dropped the cup on the grass, swearing. Alistair caught his flailing hand and pressed the handkerchief carefully to his scalded skin. Crowley gasped at just how tender his touch was, how this was somehow far more intimate than having that neatly manicured hand centimetres from his semi aroused cock. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh my dear I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you like that! Are you alright?” Alistair rushed out. <em>Still with impeccable enunciation</em> Crowley noted. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whu? Yeh, just… hot. Wasn’t expecting it. Ah, seeing you I mean. Like that. Suddenly. All over me. Looming I mean. Uh… Did you need something?” Crowley babbled himself into a cringe filled silence. <em>As if this wasn’t already bad enough you inarticulate twat. That wasn’t a Freudian slip, that was a Freudian landslide.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right…” Alistair started uncertainly. “Yes, I... Well. It occurred to me last night that I am apparently going to need you with me at all times until this… crisis is over, which doesn’t leave me with a great deal of freedom.” Alistair sat down on the bench beside Crowley, who realised too late that his arm was still over the back of said bench, and therefore now trapped between Alistair’s broad shoulders and the wall. He quickly shoved his sunglasses back up his nose to hide whichever of the many emotions that he was feeling right now were being broadcast for all and sundry, letting his free hand drop strategically across his crotch. With the sunlight on his face, Crowley noted, Alistair’s eyes were a stunning, pale, crystalline blue. They were flitting all around but never quite making it to Crowley's face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I mean, what if I wanted to go out for the evening? I’d have to take you with me, and I don’t envision many intimate dates putting up with you looming over their shoulder," Alistair took a deep breath, picking the grass from his knees, "so… the only option left is… well… for you to take me. Out, for the evening I mean. If you want to.” Alistair looked up at Crowley with an anxious expression. Crowley promptly froze, thinking fast. “But only if you want to…” Alistair was radiating hope and Crowley was sure he'd missed something somewhere because it sounded very much like Alistair had just asked him on a <em>date</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well… uh… you’re the boss Alistair, so if you want me to take you out, I'll take you. Whatever you want.” <em>GAH</em><em>! </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The smile that followed very nearly outshone the sun itself, and Alistair stopped just shy of clapping in glee, his hands merely fluttering together over his chest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wonderful! I’ll, uh, leave it up to you to tie down the details then?” Alistair asked tentatively. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley just nodded. It was all he could trust himself to do at the moment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right. Well. Tickety-boo! I’ll just, um… leave you to your coffee. Well, sun anyway.” Alistair rose awkwardly, brushing at his knees again and glancing at the dark twin of his cup discarded on the grass. He positively floated back towards the house, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Crowley watched him go, dumbfounded. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Tickety-boo? </em>He thought vaguely, taking a few minutes to compose himself, before retrieving the coffee cup and heading inside.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Why the fuck had he said yes? Bodyguards were not supposed to take their employers out on a date. It was pretty much the first rule - don’t get too close. Crowley thought for a moment. <em>Well, more like a guideline, really. But still. Messy</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But it didn’t stop the man plaguing his thoughts. Every time his mind wandered, there he was in all his ridiculous, soft focus glory. A divine vision in pale clothes and dark desires. At first the thoughts had been mostly idle and carnal, but lately there had been fewer thoughts of finding alternative uses for library ladders, and more thoughts on how to get him do that face again, the one that made him feel like he might actually be capable of all the daft things Pepper was convinced he already did. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hello, handsome.” Came a sultry voice, snapping him back to the present. He’d wandered, coffee cup in hand, into the kitchen where Tracy was getting a head start on lunch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Madame.” Crowley gave an exaggerated bow, which earned him a chuckle. “That smells simply wicked.” He said, a rakish grin spreading over his face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ooh you are incorrigible!” Tracy preened. Crowley rinsed his cup out in the sink and slid onto a stool at the island. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you known Alistair long then?” He asked.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh blimey, yes. I used to work in a cafe many years ago and he used to come in all the time. Often with that Oscar.” Her face darkened at the mention of the name as she stirred a huge pot on the stove. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Go on..." Crowley encouraged. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh that man was a right piece of work. Used to do something to do with television I think and he used to say the most horrible things to poor Mr F. One day, can you believe it, he just upped and walked out, leaving Mr F half way through his breakfast! Alistair looked so distraught, bless him, I ended up sitting with him and he told me all about the vile way Oscar would treat him, and call it love. Only Alistair didn’t see it for what it was at the time, bless ‘im. Now, Oscar only came back a few times after that, but Alistair used to come back on his own and we would sit and have a lovely chat. Then Oscar up and left him for someone younger and more eager to please, and Alistair was devastated." Crowley felt his hands ball into fists of their own accord. "I helped him see it for the blessing it was, and after that Alistair used to come and sit in the corner with that old laptop of 'is. I didn’t know what he was up to until he asked me to read his first manuscript one day. Turned out he’d had this incredible story going around in his head since he was a child and he’d never had the confidence to write it down. Well, I knew someone in the publishing business - I didn’t always work in a cafe,” she grinned at Crowley over her shoulder, “and I passed it to them, with Alistair’s blessing o'course, and the rest is history! So anyway, the corner of the cafe became known as Alistair’s corner, and it was generally acknowledged that if you came in, there was a good chance you’d appear in one of his books. He loves observing people he does, and taking bits here and there for his characters. I’ve cropped up a few times over the years, in various guises.” She said, patting her hair. “So, once it all took off and he was doing well, he asked me to come and be his cook and general housekeeper, and here I still am. He’s such a lovely man, and I am eternally grateful that Oscar is long gone. Not that he didn’t try to wheedle his way back in of course, but by then Alistair had a few more of us around him who could help him hold his nerve. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, he tends to surround himself with the fairer sex. Too much of a distraction he says. But he’s happier these days. Certainly smiles a lot more than when I first met him!” Tracy finished. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m guessing you’ve seen him use that weaponised smile a few times then?” Crowley joked. He’d need to call R.P. about this Oscar later. Could be a potential lead if the man was as controlling as he sounded. No wonder Alistair kept his staff strictly female. Crowley felt a strange surge of anger at the idea that anyone could treat Alistair that way. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What was that, dearie?” Tracy asked, confused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, the one he deploys when he wants something.” Crowley waved his hand absent-mindedly, his thoughts still lingering on what men like Oscar deserved. “The one that makes you feel all..." he gestured wildly "...in your chest. I’m guessing it gets him into a lot of places. All those exclusive clubs, for a start.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh yes, I suppose he does like his clubs. Discrete, somewhere he is always welcomed like a friend - he’s a member at pretty much every London club that will let him in you know!” Tracy looked at Crowley thoughtfully for a moment. “And I'll admit he is rather good at charming his way into places. Come to think of it, the only place I know nearby that won’t let him in is the R.A.F. club on Piccadilly, a fact that dun‘alf irritate him.” Tracy said, watching Crowley carefully out of the corner of her eye while she continued to stir. “Tell me dear, have you ever been in love?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley looked a little surprised. “Me? Nah, ‘m not the type people fall in love with. What did you say this Oscar’s surname was?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Waterford, lovey.” Said Tracy, knowing full well that she hadn’t. “About as pretentious as he sounds.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oscar Waterford. ‘Course. Right. S'pose I’d better go sort out this mess on my trousers then. Coffee spillage. Cheers for the info Tracy. Ciao!” Crowley called out as he left the kitchen and ambled down the stairs. Tracy merely smiled into her casserole. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley contemplated what she had said about Alistair putting people in his books. That would certainly make the request to take him out a bit more understandable if he was after some juicy material for his next story. Crowley relaxed a bit at that thought - he could handle a business dinner. Letting Alistair see what the life of a bodyguard was actually like would be simple enough. Maybe he’d even show him some of the stuff in his flat - he had some pretty cool souvenirs there that would make exciting plot lines. Crowley felt much easier about taking his boss out for dinner now he knew it was a work-related thing and not a date. Yep, definitely not a date. Much more relaxed now. Not disappointed at all.<em> At all, d’you hear?</em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair was pacing in his library. He’d been so nervous when he approached Crowley, but the bright sun had breached behind his sunglasses and he’d been able to see that Crowley’s eyes were closed. He looked so peaceful that Alistair couldn't help but pause to take him all in. Crowley didn’t seem to realise he was there, but it wasn’t unusual for people not to notice him. He moved quietly and had spent a long time learning to blend into the background. Private education could be cruel to children who didn’t fit the mould, and it had been easier to just avoid being seen at all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And he’d so enjoyed the view while he could take the chance to admire without being observed. His imagination had rather got away with him once he’d spotted that delicious sliver of hip baring itself to the cold air. He’d ached to touch, to taste, to fully experience this sublime incarnation of temptation all laid out so decadently on his bench. The light was falling across Crowley's face highlighting the striking angular features, as if a Gustave Courbet self-portrait had come to life. Much like Courbet’s paintings Crowley was immobile, but Alistair could sense the movement merely a breath away. He’d come so close to reaching out, convincing himself he could pass it off as stirring him, but then the coffee had spilt and it had all got rather fraught and messy, resulting in Crowley looking up at him from a rather delightful, if somewhat compromising, position, his mouth open, no less. It was maddening and he had had to distract himself rather quickly after that, although in hindsight pressing his hands into Crowley's thigh hadn't been the wisest thing to do and he had got rather carried away which caused Crowley to spill his coffee again. He hadn't thought until afterwards at what the grass would do to the knees of his trousers, and how he would explain that to Tracy he had no idea. He could already see her smirk. </span>
  <span class="s1">When he had eventually managed to get across to Crowley the words he had rehearsed he had been overjoyed with the answer, but on reflection it felt less clear cut. He’d hoped for an indication of the man’s interest, but he realised that what Crowley had actually said was frustratingly vague, but at least it hadn’t been an outright no. He’d either go out and have an extraordinarily awkward evening, or, well… Oh who was he kidding. Heart and head all a-flutter, Alistair forced himself to sit down and pick up a book. He had left Crowley in charge of the details, so he would just have to see what he came up with. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help the little flicker of excitement every time he thought about it. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair’s good mood was shattered later that afternoon when Gabriel paid him an unexpected visit. Crowley loped into the dining room holding a a can of something fizzy and artificially coloured and a chorizo and rocket sandwich with a notable lack of plate, to find Gabriel, Newt, Anathema and Alistair in a heated discussion. Gabriel and Newt at one end of the long, antique table, Anathema and Alistair at the other. Alistair glanced up as Crowley appeared in the doorway and a funny little smile fluttered across his face before he turned back to the men opposite him. Crowley could see the tension around his mouth, in the way he held his shoulders, in the wringing of his hands. He took an instant dislike to the brash American with his plastic smile and his too-perfect teeth. It was like he’d seen sincere and thought it beneath him. Crowley decided to have some fun. He sauntered around the table and sat down the other side of Alistair, sprawled on the chair so his body was facing the two men at the other end. His job was to protect Alistair from all threats, and right now Alistair was clearly feeling threatened. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“…But if I start adding in all your suggestions it will irrevocably alter the tone of the story.” He heard Alistair say. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s sort of the point Al, you need to sex them up a bit, appeal to a wider audience. I’m sure you can see? A bit more flesh on show, that sort of-” Crowley chose this moment to open his lurid drink, revelling in the loud hiss it made as the pressurised air escaped. He leisurely cracked the stay-tab open as he stared towards the other end of the table. Gabriel glanced at him with disdain but ignored him in favour of haranguing Alistair. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look, the-” Crowley took a loud slurp from the can. “...The suggestions I’m making will make your next book much more marketable to the younger audience. It’ll be more exciting, we’ll sell more books, and we’ll all be happy!” He spread his hands wide to emphasise his point, just as Crowley audibly smacked his lips in appreciation of the refreshing drink.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sure you can see that I’ve got a point- Look who the hell are you?” Gabriel cracked as Crowley had taken a bite of his sandwich, and a leaf out of Alistair’s book, and appreciated his food rather loudly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley glanced to the side behind his sunglasses to see Alistair looking slightly flushed, fearful and not showing any signs of making the introduction himself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crowley.” He said through another mouthful of sandwich. “Anthony Crowley. Personal protection. You?” Crowley sprawled back on his chair. Gabriel looked at him, incredulous, then at Alistair with a curious expression, then back at him with a final, derisive stare. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Gabriel. I am Alistair’s publisher. I am trying to explain to him that he needs to take my suggestions on board for his next book. I have a great plan for him! Maybe you can help me convince him.” Gabriel flashed his soulless smile at him. The level of arrogance was astounding. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley appeared to consider it for a moment as he chewed and swallowed his mouthful, but the dejected look on Alistair’s face was making his blood boil. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nah. Don’t think I will. ’S not my place to tell the beloved author how to write.” Crowley took another bite of his sandwich. When it became clear that no more was forthcoming, Gabriel turned back to Alistair, irritation evident on his face. Crowley watched Newt gazing at Anathema and he realised she was blushing slightly.<em> Interesting.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right. Well. Think about it eh Alistair? And please give some serious consideration this time to the screen adaptation and merchandising opportunities, it would do so much for you as a brand! I know you like your comfort zone, and it certainly does look…” Gabriel’s eyes swept down Alistair’s body as his hands waved around vaguely in the air at him “comfortable, but you can’t live there forever! At some point you have to take a step out into the light! You’re better than this you know. What are you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Soft…” Alistair mumbled so quietly that Gabriel wouldn’t have heard it even if he had been listening. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right.” Gabriel stood up to leave, prodding Newt when he didn’t immediately follow suit. He was still gazing at Anathema who was trying very hard to be professional and ignore him, but she was on the verge of grinning like a fool. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gabriel studied Crowley. “Anthony, wasn’t it?” Crowley pretended his mouth was too full to respond and instead waved vaguely at him, the gesture turning considerably less friendly as he turned away. Gabriel picked up the few sheets that Alistair had given him as he turned towards the door. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you for my pornography!” He joked, missing the wince that passed over Alistair’s face every time he made it. Alistair was sat very still, looking into his lap. After Anathema had shown Gabriel and Newt out and shut the front door, Alistair finally took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and set his face back to his usual calm, genial neutral. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why on Earth do you work with him?!” Crowley asked him. “He’s a grade A arsehole. No wait, that’s too good. Grade Z? Reject swept off the cutting room floor?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair gave a weak chuckle. “I don’t have much choice, dear boy. The publishing house assigned him to me, and we have a contract. I need him to like me to keep my publishing deal, which is up for renewal this summer. And I get the distinct impression that I’m not succeeding in that respect. Regrettable, but that’s the way it is.” Alistair said sadly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Still a wanker.” Crowley grumbled. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe if I use the suggestions he’s put forward I can show him I’m worth keeping on…” Alistair said half to himself as Anathema returned. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did I just hear you say what I think you said?! Because I can’t have heard you saying you were actually going to include his ridiculous suggestions?!” Anathema demanded, folding her arms over her chest. “You know full well that what he’s asking you to do is utterly incongruous to your story line. You’d have to change the whole direction of the book! And I know for a fact that you hate the idea of a studio getting their hands on your story and distorting it to please some stuffy exec.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair looked like he was about to cry. Anathema sat down and put a hand on his shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You can do this Alistair. You can tell him no. Tell them to assign you a different editor. You’re making them enough money that they won’t want to lose you. Can you tell him Crowley?” She looked to Crowley who was somehow managing to eat and drink much more quietly now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He swallowed his mouthful. “She’s right you know. You can tell Gabriel to shove his asinine suggestions up his sanctimonious arse. If he can get his head out first.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crowley!” Alistair scolded, barely holding back the smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whaaat? You’d prefer feather-brained douchebag?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I… really!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No? How about over compensating streak of toddler piss?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well… I-”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oooooh, got it!” Crowley put his sandwich down on the white tablecloth and stood up to strike a dramatic pose, feet planted in a wide stance, nose up in the air, one hand on his hips, the other thrust out towards the seat Gabriel had occupied.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune. Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger!” He grinned down at the shocked Alistair, then returned to his seat to resume his sandwich. Anathema was giving him a very grateful smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You… But… Hamlet? Really? Oh what’s the use. He’d never understand it anyway.” Alistair said eventually.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah but that’s half the fun.” Crowley flashed him a mischievous grin over the top of his sunglasses and goodness did that make Alistair's heart race. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t know you liked Hamlet.” He said nervously, the question hanging in the air behind it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Like’s a strong word. It’s a bit gloomy. I prefer the funny ones.” Crowley shrugged. “Shakespeare is a popular choice for entertaining foreign dignitaries, and where they went, I went too. Saw a lot of Hamlet one summer.” Alistair very nearly hid his disappointment, but Crowley was trained to watch facial expressions. Still, he looked happier than he did before, so it was worth it. Anathema gave Alistair's shoulder another pat before standing up and excusing herself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair looked at Crowley again. Studying him as he scarfed down the last of his sandwich and admiring the stretch of his neck as he drained his drink. Diet coke had a lot to answer for, in Alistair's opinion. He let his eyes drag down as Crowley stood up to take his empty can back to the kitchen. He discretely admired his lithe form, his slender, elegant limbs, then looked down at himself, at his rounded shape, the way his stomach gently rested over his waistband as he sat, the way his thighs spread on the chair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Gabriel can get fucked. If he knew how to write the way you do, he’d be doing it himself.” Crowley said, placing one hand reassuringly on Alistair’s shoulder as he wound behind him to get to the door. Before he realised what he was doing, Alistair had put his hand over Crowley’s. He felt the wiry hand still beneath his own. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s right about me being a bit too… comfortable though.” He sighed. He felt Crowley’s hand tense up, fingers digging slightly into the flesh of his shoulder. Crowley spoke very deliberately.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No. He’s not. And the fact that he thinks it’s in any way appropriate to make any comments on your appearance tells me he deserves everything coming to him if I hear him say that sort of shit again.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair let his hand fall back down to his lap. “Oh my dear, as lovely as that offer is, I do still need his approval to keep my contract and get my next book published. One day, maybe.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley’s hand seemed to be stuck on Alistair’s shoulder. Crowley felt the cool air upon it where Alistair’s hand had lain, and drank in the warmth his shoulder was providing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I could… make it look like an accident…” Crowley said carefully. Alistair barked out a mirthless laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sure you could, you foul fiend. But for now, just leave him to me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright Alistair. You're in charge.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley managed to peel his hand away, and walked as normally as he could back to the kitchen to put his can in the recycling. He needed to catch Anathema to check diary dates. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Not a date. Not a date. Not a date. Not a fucking date, don’t fucking forget that dumbarse, </em>he reminded himself as he flexed the hand he’d placed on Alistair’s shoulder. The one that had had that soft hand encompass it in its solid warmth. The one that was still tingling slightly from the afterglow of that contact. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pepper found him standing outside the office in the entrance hall, holding his wrist in front of his chest and staring into nothing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Earth to Crowley! Did you lose your ridiculous watch or something?” She asked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hm? Oh, no. Actually I need to speak to you.” He said, springing to life and shoving his hands in his pockets as far as he could. “I need to borrow the Bentley for an evening. Tomorrow perhaps?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pepper narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Do you now. Does Alistair know?” She asked, crossing her arms over her chest and shifting her weight onto one hip. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Er, yeah. His idea actually. Sort of. Look, it’s going to be a surprise so just don’t tell him yeah?” Crowley stumbled out, trying not to blush. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pepper raised one eyebrow, but her expression softened. “Well, in that case, come by the garage tomorrow afternoon and I’ll give you the keys and we'll sort the insurance.” She said. “Oh, and Crowley? If you cause any damage to her, I <em>will</em> replicate it on your person. Personally.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley didn’t doubt her intention. He grinned at her. “That a promise?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh.” Pepper rolled her eyes and stepped around him, heading for the kitchen. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley had been psyching himself up all afternoon to actually tell Alistair what he had planned. He didn’t know why he was so nervous about it. <em>For the last time, it’s not a date! </em>But still. He’d gone up to the library to see if he could find Alistair and had picked up one of his books again from where they were stacked next to the Chesterfield. He’d intended to flip through it to get the general idea but had got caught up in a passage describing a tender scene between two lovers. It felt intrusive, reading something so intense and intimate when the author might walk in at any moment, yet he just couldn’t stop reading it, his imagination taking notes at ferocious speed. It felt wrong, but in a deliciously illicit way, and he was soon thoroughly absorbed, his back to the rest of the library. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Which was unfortunate, because when Alistair touched him gently on the shoulder to get his attention, having tried and failed by auditory means, Crowley’s instincts kicked in and he dropped the book, spun around and slammed Alistair one-handed into the nearest vertical surface by the neck. Ordinarily this move would result in the assailants head impacting the surface behind with extreme force and with Crowley’s straightened arm adding some extra prejudice to the manoeuvre. Fortunately Crowley realised half way through what he was doing and to whom, so he absorbed as much of his body’s momentum as he could by ramming his other hand into the bookcase next to Alistair’s head and taking the brunt of the impact through that arm instead. Unfortunately this also meant he ended up with his body forced up against Alistair’s in its entirety, pressing him firmly into the shelves behind, the other hand still curled possessively around his neck. Crowley could feel the reassuring solidity of Alistair's body where they were thrust together, the heat of his skin under his hand, the racing pulse under his fingertips. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1"><em>Kiss him.</em> His treacherous brain insisted as he ended up with his face hovering next to Alistair’s cheek so close he could almost feel it against his own. Alistair’s whimper was so quiet that he wouldn’t have heard it were it not for the fact that his mouth was right next to Crowley's e</span>ar. He was so close that if he turned his head slightly, he would end up with his lips pressed into the flesh of Alistair’s neck, and he had to fight hard not to give in to the urge to bury himself there.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>When the fuck did I become so aroused?! </em>He realised with a horrifying start. And <em>Oh shitty fuck nuggets there’s no way he won’t have noticed, with me stupidly ramming myself into him like a right dickhead. </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley pulled his head back to look at Alistair. His mortifying realisation partially replaced by quietly appreciating the rosy flush that seemed to have crept up onto Alistair’s face. Which his brain then followed up with<em> kiss him, kiss him, kiss him. You want to, he wants you to… Kiss him senseless. He’s right there. Do it now! </em>He took in the wide eyes looking down at his own mouth, pupils just a bit larger than he would have expected, and those ridiculously rosy lips parted just slightly. Alistair swallowed slowly, and Crowley felt his neck move under this hand. He could feel Alistair breathing rather heavily, his broad chest pushing up into Crowley’s own skinny ribs, but that was somewhat to be expected with the shock he must have just had. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley managed to jerk himself awkwardly away, but not before the moment had lasted just a little bit too long. He was profoundly grateful for his sunglasses. He backed away, shoving his hands into his pockets, spluttering apologies. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck! I’m so sorry! Jesus Christ are you alright? You walk so bloody quietly. The boys back at HQ could learn a thing or two from you!” He managed with a weak laugh. “Didn’t realise it was you, instinct took over I’m afraid. Really sorry. Hope I didn't hurt you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh that’s quite alright dear boy. No harm done.” Although Alistair’s facial expression didn’t look like it was quite alright. He looked rather annoyed if anything, as he stepped away from the bookshelf smoothing down his clothes. “I suppose I should be flattered that you find my book so riveting. Which bit were you reading?” He asked. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Crowley panicked. “Uuuh, the bit with the people and the thing? Where they meet in whatitsface?” Crowley’s usual ability to blag it had left him high and dry, along with his dignity it seemed. </span> <span class="s1">“Um, so, tomorrow evening. Does that work for you?” He blurted out in a strained voice, grateful for the legitimate opportunity to change the subject. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh! Well, of course I’ll need to check with Anathema, but I don’t see why not? What did you have in mind for us?” Alistair asked, his voice practically purring, his heart pounding in a manner in which it hadn’t seen fit to do for quite some years. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Anathema says you’re free, and nothing booked the next morning that you need to be up early for, so no curfew, and Pepper is graciously letting me drive the Bentley, but the rest is a surprise. That is, if you still want to go…?” Crowley asked carefully. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well if you’ve gone to the effort of convincing Pepper to hand over the keys then I cannot very well say no now, can I?” Alistair said, eyes twinkling in the late afternoon sun that was creeping in through the window. Crowley couldn’t help but get distracted by how lovely Alistair looked, the sunlight catching the dust motes dancing in the air around him, making him look as if he were gently sparkling. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uuuh, right, until tomorrow then Angel? I’ll wait for you by the front door around six?” Crowley said eventually, before awkwardly turning to head back towards the stairs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Indeed.” Alistair sighed.<em> Angel…?</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As he bounded down the stairs Crowley mentally berated himself for the shit show he’d just played the starring role in. Something about Alistair made him lose his edge, and it was not a place he was comfortable in. He’d made Alistair angry with his stupidity, but thankfully he was too kind to actually shout at him. He needed to get his shit together properly this time if he wanted to stay. His body, however, remembered in minute detail how it had felt to be pressed up against the delicious softness that was that wonderful man, and he knew he’d find it hard not to think about it every time he was near him now, never mind the sound he made. Crowley inhaled and realised he could smell Alistair on him. There went any chance of concentrating this evening then… </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Meanwhile, Alistair had had only one thought in the moments when Crowley had him pinned full bodied up against his bookshelf in such a passionate manner. Or rather, the same thought over and over again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Yes. Oh dear God, YES.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’d had to grip tightly onto the shelf behind him to keep himself upright as his knees threatened to give way beneath him, which also served to stop him grabbing hold of Crowley and dragging him into the kiss he so desperately wanted with every fibre of his being. So it was wholly unsurprising that he looked frustrated when Crowley pulled away rather than leaned in those last few infuriating centimetres. Particularly if he’d felt… what he thought he’d felt. It had taken a concerted effort to reduce the moan that tried to escape to a barely audible whine. Hopefully Crowley hadn't heard it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, it would give him something to think about later, and with Crowley’s bewitching scent on his own clothes it would be quite a long, luxurious thought, and one he might have to perhaps go back and have again a few times to make sure he got it right.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next day passed slowly. After a bit of a false start where Alistair once again startled at the sight of Crowley in the kitchen, the rest of the day progressed with a healthy supply of tentative smiles and shy glances and by the evening Crowley found himself spending far more time than usual on getting ready. He had chosen his tightest black trousers, paired with a tailored black shirt and a crushed velvet blazer with a thin satin lapel. In black, of course. He selected gunmetal cufflinks with a small snake on for the shirt cuffs, and bright red socks that just peeked out over the top of his black Chelsea boots. He spent more time than usual fiddling with his hair. Crowley tried to remind himself that this definitely wasn’t a date, but his brain was putting forward a strong argument that that wasn’t a good enough reason not to look his best just in case. Fortunately his usual just-out-of-bed with a hint of an-enjoyable-night-in-said-bed hairstyle was behaving tonight as he teased it and tousled it to within an inch of its life. In a fit of last minute indecision he threw the thin silver chain around his neck. It tended to get lost inside the shirt, but the feel of it helped ground him sometimes. Right. If Alistair wanted a slice of his life, then he was going to get a good one. Sunglasses on, Crowley bounced nervously upstairs, to go out on what was definitely not a date. With his boss. Whom he just so happened to find disarmingly attractive to the point of distraction. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Oh. Fuck.</em> </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It's definitely a date you chump.</p><p>It's quite interesting seeing all the speculation starting already! I've no doubt you lot are pretty smart and will work out who it is in time though. Meanwhile, you're getting nothing from me! 🤐😁</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Date night pt. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair had spent most of the day hidden away in his room under the pretence of writing. To be fair he had attempted to write, but he was far too distracted to get anything meaningful down. All he could think of was having Crowley all to himself tonight and finding out what made the man tick. And if they just so happened to do this in close physical proximity then all the better. On the surface he seemed so caustic and detached, but there were moments when something else peeked out, something altogether kinder and softer, and Alistair was excited at the prospect of getting to that side of him, to the Crowley that was under all the layers of sarcasm and swagger and tight black clothing that served as his armour. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he finally emerged in the evening, he came down to find Crowley pacing in the entrance hall. He indulged himself while he was unseen, taking in Crowley's appearance for a moment. His usual monochromatic style was enhanced with the tactile texture of his clothes he'd chosen, his hair just begging to have fingers buried in it. He moved like a caged animal, waiting to be released, or, maybe, tamed… Alistair put a stop to that thought before he got completely carried away, and took a couple of deliberate, loud steps on the stairs. Crowley’s head snapped up to see him and his lips parted in a silent gasp. Alistair had put some effort in, but in truth he preferred to be comfortable so he’d mostly gone with what he usually wore, just upgrading bits of it. He knew his body wasn’t built for stylish clothing the way Crowley’s was. He kept his stone coloured suit, but relegated his usual faded velvet waistcoat for the evening in favour of a light blue silk one, layered over a white shirt with a butterfly collar tied with his usual beige and taupe tartan bow tie, the matching silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. It was his own tartan so he was going to wear it. Tiny golden book shaped cufflinks that Anathema had given him a few Christmases ago adorned his wrists, and his gold pocket watch took pride of place with its matching gold chain. He placed Crowley’s pin on his jacket lapel. He'd long ago ceased trying to tame the hair on his head, accepting that it was going to do what it wanted regardless of anything he tried. Crowley continued to stare wordlessly and Alistair began to worry that he’d judged it wrong.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is this… am I… should I have worn something different?” He faltered as he got to the bottom step. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No” Came an almost instant, hoarse, but very definite, reply. Crowley cleared his throat. “I mean no, you’re perfect. It’s perfect. You look… great.” He said in gentler tones, snapping his jaw shut and looking away. “Shall we?” He asked, sweeping one arm out and gesturing towards the garage before sauntering away, his gait even more irregular than usual. When Alistair managed to collect himself enough to follow, he donned his coat from the cupboard and found Crowley waiting by the passenger door, black wool coat on with the collar turned up to flash the red lining, holding the door open for him. He took the offered hand to help him in, relishing the feeling of Crowley’s lean hand in his own. His hands were slender and slightly cool to the touch, and Alistair loved to watch them move. Every time Crowley spoke they would dance through the air, conducting an invisible orchestra of imagination. They were graceful, clever hands, and Alistair couldn't help wondering what it would feel like, to be touched by clever hands like that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Passenger door closed, Crowley walked around the car and slid into the driver's seat. He seemed to fit in the car as if it were designed for him, which was a ridiculous notion because the car was conceived in an age when men rarely ever reached Crowley’s stature, yet there he was, somehow wearing the car like a bespoke designer suit, his elegant hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. The engine roared into life, the garage doors and the gate opened, and with the pseudo-confident grin of a man with a plan, they were off. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley drove at a leisurely pace, and Alistair had the distinct impression it was taking him quite a bit of concentration to do so. He was thankful for it, because he found it thrilling enough to be there, just the two of them, without needing to worry about their speed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Where are you taking me this evening then?” Alistair asked, sat with his hands in his lap.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah if I told you that, then it wouldn’t be a surprise. ’S not far, but I'm told you’ve never been there before.” Crowley replied, his eyes resolutely on the road. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, it must be somewhere new then, I do believe I’ve tried every establishment within a 5 mile radius!” Alistair joked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nope. Opened in 1922.” Crowley grinned at him. He had always loved a bit of mischief, and the confused look on Alistair’s face was going to make it all the sweeter when he worked out where they were going. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then I very much doubt I’ve never been there.” Alistair said simply. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’ll have to see, won’t we.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They finished the rest of the short drive in a vaguely companionable silence. Or, as companionable as you can be when both parties are equally too nervous to know what to say. Crowley had tried the radio, but jabbed it back to silence after he recognised the first few bars of Queen's 'Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy'. He pulled up outside a light stone, late Edwardian style building on Piccadilly. Crowley jumped out and strode around to Alistair’s side to open the door before he could do it himself. He nodded at the valet who came over to take the keys and move the car to the parking area. Alistair was still rather confused. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crowley, We're not going here are we? You're right that I've never been. They won't let us in without the proper credentials.” He said looking up at the building sadly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley merely leaned in and murmured conspiratorially “Leave it to me.” Alistair tried to blame the cold for the way his skin tingled and failed dismally. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley bounded up the front steps with his hands in his pockets as if he owned the place. Alistair was momentarily so distracted by the sway of his hips that he almost forgot to follow him. He leapt into life and bustled up the steps behind him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley had paused at the top step so he could hold the door open for Alistair, who entered with a mixture of skepticism and barely restrained hope. He’d always wanted to come here, but never managed to convince them to let him in. Crowley shrugged off his coat, and Alistair did the same, folding it neatly over his arm as he looked around the entrance hall. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Gentlemen, welcome to the Royal Air Force Club. May I see your credentials?” The young woman behind the desk was polite but firm, and it was clear that this was members only. Alistair’s face fell. He’d never made it past this desk.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley flashed him a sly smile and pulled out a small identity card which he casually handed over to the woman behind the desk. She looked at it, nodded and handed it back. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Welcome Wing Commander Crowley. Please sign in your guest and you may proceed.” She slid a large ledger over the desk towards him, with a gold pen attached on a chain. Crowley made the mistake of glancing at Alistair, and got completely stuck on the way he was positively glowing with excitement. The sudden rush it gave Crowley broke out as a chuckle. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Easy now, Angel, you haven’t seen inside yet. It might not live up to your imagination.” He said as he signed the book and pushed it back. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well now, <em>Wing Commander</em>, I’m sure it will be just lovely.” Alistair was looking at him as if he were a puppy that had just learnt a new trick. <em>Angel again…</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure... Right, I figured you’d want to see as much as possible, so I left time for a drink before dinner. There’s a tavern in here that always has a good crowd. ’S called ‘The Running Horse’.” Crowley lowered his voice and leaned in again, looking at Alistair over his sunglasses. “Officially anyway.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He nudged his head towards a door off to one side, and let the momentum swing his body around to follow. Alistair was clearly keen as they were bumping shoulders in an instant as he ambled off down the corridor that was plenty wide enough for them both, into the heart of the building. <em>Should be a good crowd tonight,</em> Crowley thought. <em>Give him a good impression. Good for book research. </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The pub was down a set of ornate stairs adorned with a breathtaking stained glass window, and it was busy, but not unmanageable. The noise level lent an upbeat slant to the atmosphere, and while it was not what would be considered rowdy, Alistair had no doubt that the establishment had seen its fair share of noteworthy nights. The RAF had a reputation to maintain, after all. They went straight up to the bar. Crowley ordered a cranberry juice and turned to look at Alistair expectantly, who looked right back at him with a challenging raise of one eyebrow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“…and a gin and tonic.” Crowley said to the barman, tapping a black credit card on the machine. Alistair’s pleased expression told him he’d got it right, and he felt that buzz again. Drinks in hand, they turned to survey the bar. The ceiling was low, with the added hazards of dark wooden beams, and the matching dark wood panelling and red upholstery juxtaposed with the blue and gold theme of the rest of the building to lend a cosy atmosphere to the space. It was as if someone had transplanted a small country pub into the centre of London. It felt warm and welcoming, and Alistair could see why the patrons would enjoy this space. But being, as it was, located in a building intended for people with impeccable training and discipline, it was spotless. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you come here often then?” Alistair asked, sipping what turned out to be a rather delicious drink as he looked around.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I drop in occasionally when I’m in town. M'flat’s not far from here.” Crowley said lazily. He was leaning on the bar in such a manner that the barman would have said he was already at the point where he would normally have a word with his mates about taking him home, were it not for the fact that he’d just served him his first drink himself, and it had been non-alchoholic. “Work takes me all over the place, and it’s been a long time since I was a serving officer, but it’s nice to come somewhere sometimes where you know what to expect.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How long-” Alistair began, but was abruptly interrupted as an impeccably enunciated shout went up from the other end of the bar. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look lively chaps, it’s the bloody Serpent!” Crowley’s face froze. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Obviously not expecting that</em>, Alistair thought. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah balls.” Crowley muttered to himself as four well built men holding pints approached them. They were dressed in pastel polo shirts and light coloured chinos, and all carried themselves in the poise of one who has been trained to stand on parade. Crowley stepped smartly around to Alistair’s left with a wide grin on his face, to intercept them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lads! It’s been a while. Still not developed a sense of style I see, but that’s forces life for you I suppose.” He joked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ha! I see you're still a flash bastard then?” One countered, with a nod to his outfit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well what else am I going to be? An Aardvark?” Crowley grinned.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair watched the banter go back and forth with professional interest as he sipped his drink. Crowley seemed to be a sharper version of himself in the presence of these men. Sharper of wit, sharper of tongue, even his movements were more staccato, his vowels more clipped. He was almost standing up straight as well, a near miracle in itself. Alistair was surprised to realise that Crowley was actually a few inches taller than him when he attempted a more presentable posture. After a while he spoke up. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He asked. “But did I hear correctly that you referred to Crowley here as ‘The Serpent’?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The men looked him over with a curious expression. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“’S alright lads, he’s with me. This is Alistair, he’s an author and a civvy.” Crowley told them before turning to Alistair. “It was my call sign. The RAF doesn’t really go in for them like they do in the movies, they’re not that imaginative. It’s usually your surname with ‘ey’ added on the end, but as that doesn’t work for me they decided I needed something a bit more ridiculous. These lads are from my old squadron. We flew out of Lossie together. Smithy, Jonesey, Greeney and Tinny” Crowley indicated each man in turn and Alistair was treated to four very nice handshakes. 'Nice' in that they were both pleasant to participate in, and executed in a scrupulously exact fashion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Six Squadron.” The one introduced as Smithy grinned as he held up his forearm to reveal a tattoo of a large black bird holding a snake. The others also pulled at various parts of clothing to show their versions of the squadron tattoo.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh I say! Very, um, neatly done. Lovely, er, colours. Is there a reason for the theme?” Asked Alistair, momentarily flustered by the sudden displays of tanned and toned flesh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The eagle and snake are the Six Squadron emblem.” Jonesey told him proudly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright chaps, put ‘em away.” Crowley grumbled, resolutely ignoring the brief flash of jealousy he felt at Alistair’s reaction to his ex colleagues. Sure they were physically fit, but he had more brains, extra training and would win in a fight, he tried to remember. <em>Maybe even a fair one too. </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not getting yours out then eh?” Smithy jibed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know full well why I can’t get mine out in here.” Crowley retorted. “I promised your partners I wouldn't 'cause you lot just can't keep your hands off me when I do. Besides, takes bloody ages to get back into these trousers.” Crowley was resolutely not looking at Alistair while he said that. It was a running joke with his squadron, although admittedly not one he had used in years, and he wasn’t sure if he could keep his voice light and jovial if he had to say it to Alistair’s face. Fortunately they all just laughed, as they usually did, and Crowley felt himself breathe again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How very intriguing. Does the snake in your emblem have something to do with why you call him ‘serpent’ then?” Alistair asked, face a study in innocent curiosity. He thought back to the tattoo he’d glimpsed in the entrance hall at home and tried not to wonder just where the rest of it wound up. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley winced. Book research was one thing, but he knew where this would lead, and while he had a professional image to maintain, he was not that sort of professional. Although Alistair was certainly testing his resolve. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nah, we call him that because of the way he walks.” Greeney chimed in. “Snake hips!” He said gleefully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” said Tinny in a darker tone, “That and he’s got a massive-”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right! Thanks lads, good seeing you but must be off, sorry fellas, got a table reserved and you know how they get here when you’re late. Catch up another time yeah?” Crowley interrupted hurriedly to a chorus of raucous laughter and elbow nudges from the men. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ooooh, a full service date eh?” Jeered Smithy as Crowley put a hand on Alistair's elbow and guided him away before any more could be said. Crowley stuck his arm out behind him at the men in a single-fingered salute, which only served to make them laugh even more.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Meanwhile Alistair was looking him over with an amused intrigue and he felt the blush rising on his cheeks at the knowledge of what Alistair now had reason to be intrigued about. Empty glasses deposited back on the bar on the way past, he led Alistair away towards the restaurant.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They seemed rather fun.” Alistair commented as he followed Crowley, noting with mounting interest that ‘serpentine’ was indeed a fitting description for the way Crowley moved.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That was them on their best behaviour as you’re not a Rock Ape.” Crowley grumbled as Alistair caught up next to him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The call sign tradition does sound rather fun, although ‘Felly’ sounds rather like brand of umbrellas.” Alistair sounded wistful. Crowley turned, walking backwards for a moment to face Alistair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Guess we’ll have to stick with ‘Angel’ then, won’t we.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh you wily serpent.” Alistair grinned, blushing ever so slightly, and Crowley's spin back round was considerably less graceful. “Do you give everyone you work with a call sign then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, bit of a habit.” Crowley managed to work feet out again and grinned as he leant towards Alistair, his hands in his pockets. “But I’ll only say it to their face if it’s a good one, or I’m <em>really</em> sure they won’t get the joke.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair was elated. He’d never had a nickname before. <em>Well, not one I actually liked</em>, he thought as Gabriel popped into his head. He pushed that smug face out of his mind, thinking instead about his impending dinner and absolutely not about the way his insides were a mess of goo and fierce longing brought on by something so silly as a nickname. <em>Honestly, who swoons at that?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair was looking forward to the food. He'd heard great things about it - one of the reasons he was so keen to get in, so he hoped that it lived up to its reputation, knowing even if it didn't that it would take a lot more than that to ruin this night. </span>
  <span class="s1">It would just be that much sweeter if he knew whether his sinfully sinuous, night-clad companion was on the same metaphorical page about the intention of the evening as he was. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The dining room itself was back up the stairs with the spectacular window that Alistair missed for the second time, and was light and airy, the tall ceilings adding grandeur to the space. There were large sash windows along one wall looking out over a dark Green Park, and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The walls were a mixture of vaguely floral, duck egg blue wallpaper, and light oak panelling. Small, round tables with floor length, white tablecloths were accompanied by dark blue leather armchairs with white piping. It balanced perfectly between relaxed and formal. Alistair was delighted to find all the glassware had the RAF Club crest engraved onto them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once the maître d’ had settled them at their table, taking their coats to the rack, Crowley relaxed a bit more into his customary sprawl. He’d long ago given up trying to force his body to adhere to conventional notions of sitting, and found it far easier to just drape himself over the chair and get on with it. Alistair fortunately seemed to have escaped the encounter with his old squadron unscathed, and was perusing the menu whilst sat so straight it would have made his old training instructors weep. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh I say, they have oysters! Are they good here do you know?” Alistair asked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Never eaten an oyster.” Crowley half mumbled, somewhat lost in Alistair’s excited expression. He wasn't sure how he was going to make it through the evening if Alistair kept looking at him like that. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, well then you must let me tempt you!” Alistair responded, with a delighted smile. <em>As if you don’t do enough of that already</em>, Crowley thought. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“’S not very angelic though is it? Tempting a poor mortal such as myself.” Crowley raised one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth followed it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Poor mortal?" Alistair responded, looking him over in a way that he was quickly becoming wary of. "I do believe we agreed that if I am an angel then surely you are a demon. Besides, it was a snake responsible for the original sin you know, the very first temptation.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Yeah, but then shouldn't it be me tempting you?" Crowley reasoned. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"How do you know you aren't?" Alistair countered. And by God, if this was Crowley not trying to tempt him, he realised he would have no chance if Crowley actually put some effort in. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley barked out a laugh. “Fine, if you want oysters, Angel, then have oysters.” He sat back and gazed at Alistair as he wiggled happily. Then his face fell as he was struck with a horrifying realisation and he picked up his menu hurriedly. The last time he’d seen Alistair eat out, he’d… caused quite a scene. If he did that in here, not only would they be firmly asked to leave, but with his old squadron in the building he would never hear the end of it. Literally.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“…Crowley my dear, are you alright?” Alistair asked. Crowley tuned back in at the mention of his name and peered over the top of the pristinely embossed card. “You look a little concerned…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm? Oh, yeah, just thinking about how quiet it is in here. How every little noise carries…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah. And you’re worried I may make a scene? Don’t worry dear boy, I’m perfectly capable of eating quietly if the occasion calls for it.” Alistair paused, his head tilted slightly, holding Crowley's gaze before lowering his voice. “Unless you’d prefer me not to?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley’s jaw dropped as Alistair smiled smugly and looked back at his menu.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would sirs care to order some drinks?” Came a voice suddenly at Crowley’s elbow, breaking him out of his internal, semi-coherent, spluttering monologue at just how much of a bastard his client actually was.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Crowley failed to regain his ability to speak, Alistair ordered two glasses of Sangiovese which were dutifully brought to the table. As they arrived Crowley’s brain finished rebooting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But… you…” He tried. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Knew exactly what I was doing? Yes, I’m rather afraid I did. It’s true I enjoy my food, and the staff at the clubs are well aware of my… habits. I thought it best to get it out of the way sooner rather than later. You seemed so quiet during the meal that I was sure you’d be put off and go. I must say, I’m rather glad you didn’t, particularly after that nasty incident with the photographer.” Alistair shuddered slightly as he remembered it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley was still processing all this when the waiter returned. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you come to a decision on your dining choice gentlemen? And may I kindly remind sir of the restaurant dress code?” He asked, looking at Crowley and placing a discreet finger next to his eye. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Huh? Oh yeah, sorry, forgot I had them on.” Crowley mumbled, squinting at the light as he removed his sunglasses and slipped them in his jacket pocket. He looked down at his menu. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Easily done sir. And now, may I take your order?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair ordered the oysters as a starter, then a Filet Mignon for a main. Crowley decided on venison carpaccio for a starter, followed by duck leg. Orders in hand, the waiter nodded smartly and disappeared back off to the kitchen. Only then did Crowley brave looking at Alistair. He felt extraordinarily naked and vulnerable without his sunglasses. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So.” Alistair said, fixing him with a probing stare. He so rarely saw Crowley's actual eyes, he was going to make the most of it. “Wing Commander Anthony J. Crowley eh? What does the ‘J’ stand for?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“’S just a ‘J’…” Crowley dismissed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, ‘Jonathan’, ‘James’ or ‘Jacob’ then?” Alistair raised an eyebrow and a smirk flashed across his lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, it’s literally just a ‘J’. That’s all the agency could tell me, and my original birth certificate is long gone.” Crowley shrugged. “Sometimes I play around with what it could be, but I’ve not found one I like yet.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"And the 'Crowley'? Do you know where that came from?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">Crowley rubbed his face. "Chose that myself. Lilith's maiden name. Changed it as soon as I could. 'Morningstar' just wasn't me."</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair studied him for a moment as he fiddled with his cutlery. He opted for a safer topic of conversation. Sort of. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well 'Crowley' certainly suits you. How long have you been a bodyguard then, if you don’t mind my asking?” Alistair swirled his wine in its glass. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A few years. Six, maybe?” Crowley said, deep in thought. “Worked for the Met for a bit, in their protection departments. Spent a lot of time following around various minor royals, foreign dignitaries and politicians both foreign and domestic. That was fairly tedious. Mostly involved hanging around at official functions, then trailing around shops and tourist attractions and making sure their various partners never met. Then there was the whole PM business that managed to go down when I wasn't there. Went back to them after the mandatory time off, got bored, struck out on my own, got even more bored but with more money, then actually got a client with a serious threat and never looked back. Now I only work with people who have a credible threat towards them, otherwise I get bored, and the devil finds work for idle hands shall we say.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair looked both fascinated, and disappointed. Crowley tried to think of something that might make a good anecdote for a book. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Done a few interesting things on the job though. One client - some minor celeb’s sprog - went to a paintball party for a diplomat kid’s eleventh birthday that got a bit out of hand. Lots of rich kids with personal protection and weapons. They turned the paintball guns on us adults, so we teamed up and corralled them all in one place. Turned out they’d been having bets over who’s bodyguard was better and wanted us to prove it, so we left a couple of the more newbie crew watching the kids and let off some steam.” Crowley leaned forward picking up his wine glass, elbows resting on the table and grinned, and Alistair was captivated by the amount of expression the sunglasses normally hid. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Gosh, the worst I’ve had at a birthday party was when someone’s 3 year old threw cake at me. So who won then?” He asked, suddenly aware he had been staring. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well I’d argue the kids won that day really, but in terms of the skirmish… let’s just say only one of us had SAS training. Even managed to make some bloke who’d wandered onto the wrong course faint when he nearly trod on me.” Crowley winked, and Alistair laughed and Crowley thought it was the most wonderful sound he had ever heard. He could watch the way Alistair’s eyes crinkled at the edges and sparkled with his mirth for ever, he decided. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well I’m glad you’re on my side then.” Alistair said, smiling. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh am I? Thought you were an angel, and I was a demon. Pretty much opposite sides. Not sure we get to have our own side.” Crowley said sprawling back into his chair with his wine glass cradled loosely in his fingers. He let his leg stretch out under the table, anchoring it on the table leg. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sure we could come to some sort of arrangement.” Alistair said leaning forward onto the table himself now, and idly trailing his finger around the rim of his wineglass. He nearly jumped at the feeling of Crowley's leg slide gently against his own. “After all, Pepper insists you are a spy, so you must be used to working in the shadows.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley snorted at that, glad of the distraction from Alistair’s hypnotic ministrations to his wine glass. “Sorry Angel, not a spy. Just a bodyguard now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, how on earth did you get into that? How does one decide that they want to throw themselves in the path of danger for a living? What could possible make you want to commit to taking a potentially fatal blow for others, for me?” Alistair fixed him with a stare that spoke volumes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley thought for a moment, wondering what on earth had made this wonderful man think he was worth anything less than the world. Alistair watched Crowley’s unguarded eyes flit through a variety of emotions before his face settled and he looked back at Alistair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can’t write.” He shrugged.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Their starters arrived, and Alistair tucked in excitedly, napkin placed carefully on his lap, trying not to miss the contact where Crowley's leg had withdrawn as he sat up. He was true to his word and managed to contain his enjoyment to purely rapturous facial expressions, with the odd, stifled moan of appreciation. Crowley was watching his face with interest, not sure if this even more restrained version was helping or not. He watched the way Alistair's eyelids fluttered closed when he enjoyed something. Watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed. He was idly wondering what he would have to do to earn that sort of expression, when Alistair looked up at him and he belatedly remembered that he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses any more.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve been watching me like a snake might watch its prey. Do you want one?” Alistair asked, holding up an oyster.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley decided it was as good a story as any he could think of.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well I suppose I’m curious to know what’s so good about something that looks like snot in a shell.” He said, shrugging his shoulders. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair rolled his eyes. “Just try one.” He said, holding one out across the table towards him. Crowley put a hand up to take it but Alistair moved it away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t be silly, I’ve seasoned this one and I won't have you spilling it. Much simpler for me to just give it to you. Now, open up dear boy.” He said, holding the oyster out towards Crowley’s mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was a bad idea. Crowley knew it was a bad idea. But he was very bad at not doing things that were a bad idea. He leaned forward and opened his mouth. Alistair brought the shell to his lips, gently touching the tip of one manicured finger against Crowley’s lower lip to steady his hand and tipped the oyster up so the flesh slipped into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley barely felt the oyster slide onto his tongue, so electrified was he with the faint touch of Alistair’s finger to his lip. He twisted the knife of self sabotage and looked up at Alistair's face. He was watching Crowley's mouth with avid attention, his own mouth hanging slightly open, his tongue just visible where it arched up to meet his top teeth in what Crowley was choosing to think of as concentration. He forgot all about the oyster sliding towards his throat as he stared at the tongue gently teasing along neat, white teeth, and promptly choked on it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Coughing and spluttering, he managed to swallow it with only mildly irritated glances from the neighbouring tables. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crowley my dear, you’re supposed to chew it otherwise you miss out on the flavour!” Alistair said in a mildly mocking tone, although his face had taken on a rather rosy hue. Crowley suddenly had a mad urge to find out if he could fit under the floor length tablecloth but even he could tell that would be a very bad idea to try here. Once they had finished their starters, the waiter came to clear the plates away and Alistair leant forward again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So my dear, indulge me. I can understand you living a life of adventure and excitement, but you must forgive me if I say you don’t seem the type for a forces career? How did you end up being in the Royal Air Force in the first place?” He asked, as if they’d been having a perfectly normal conversation and he hadn’t just done something so intimate, so sensual, that it should probably be classed as unfit for public consumption. Crowley realised that he might be out of his depth for once. He was teetering on the edge of his professional life getting dragged down into his personal life and he could see how easy it would be to just saunter vaguely downwards, one step at a time, and let it all get tangled when Alistair looked at him like that. It was terrifying beyond measure, and he’d never felt so alive in his life. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, as you can imagine I wasn’t the easiest kid to teach at school. There were very few teachers who got me and eventually I got kicked out. I was sixteen and Sam gave me a choice: Army, Navy, Air Force. I liked the idea of flying, and turned out to be pretty good at it, which saved my arse a lot when I pissed off the officers. I wasn’t a model cadet by any means, but it turns out being naturally talented with a set of wings, and an ability to talk your way out of most situations, helps you get away with a fair bit. Someone in command obviously saw something my training officers didn't because I ended up in command of a squadron. In truth, I only held the rank of Wing Commander a few months before I left.” Crowley shrugged. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Their main courses arrived and they got caught up in Alistair appreciating his Filet Mignon for a while before he spoke again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is your devil-may-care attitude why you ended up with the SAS then?” Alistair asked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yep. They wanted someone good at flying with little regard for personal safety, and I’d already demonstrated both.” Alistair’s brows crinkled slightly. “The selection process is no joke, and training was the hardest thing I've ever done, but it’s come in handy a few times since.” Crowley shrugged, although he was not sure there was any training in the world that could have prepared him for Alistair. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you enjoy it?” Alistair asked, watching Crowley’s face intently. He gave it some thought before answering. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah. I did, I think. I tend to feel more in focus when it’s a high stress situation.” And there it was. He’d never told anyone else that, and it had just come out without any warning. Alistair’s genial manner was dangerous he decided. The final three days of interrogation that was part of his SAS selection would have been a lot shorter, Crowley decided, if they had Alistair in their arsenal.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So what happened, what caused you to change career?” Alistair asked, and they always did at some point. Crowley looked down at his wine glass.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Medically discharged. Parachute failure. Hadn't even been there that long.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh good Lord Crowley, what happened?!” Alistair asked, aghast. Crowley looked back up at him, slightly dumbfounded. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you think happened Alistair? The redacted version is I fell, got fubar'd, it hurt, I spent time in hospital, and I got sent on my way.” Alistair could see Crowley really didn’t want to talk about it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right… well what sort of devilish thing did you do that got you expelled at sixteen then?” Alistair tried.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Asked a lot of difficult questions, and then one day I stopped asking questions and used actions to educate the school bully on right and wrong after he took a smaller kid’s apple.” Crowley said, his tone lighter but his face still guarded. He had one arm wrapped over his torso, the hand crooked around his other elbow as he supported the wine glass held in front of his face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And they threw you out for that?” Alistair asked.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well they ran out of rude notes. Besides, I educated him the only way he understood. Violently. He got a stay in hospital, I got expelled.” Crowley said, and took a long drink before putting the empty glass back on the table heavily. Alistair felt a flash of something dark and intense at the thought of Crowley being capable of that sort of violence. He’d known he was, in a detached sort of way, it was logical for someone in his line of work and with his background to be so, but actually hearing about it was a different matter. He shivered at the idea of it. Crowley seemed to have so many hidden depths that he was feeling an increasing desire to uncover. He wanted to know all about him, get right down to the core and find out what powered this creature of perpetual energy. Crowley seemed so different to himself, so much more vibrant and alive. He made Alistair desire things he hadn’t wanted for so long, made him feel like anything was possible if he just grabbed hold of him and hung on tight enough. He was utterly fascinating. Alistair couldn’t see how he would ever be interested in a slow, cautious, boring, recluse such as himself. Crowley simply went too fast to even notice him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, well, violence is occasionally justified when it lends weight to a moral argument.” Alistair said primly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley snorted and raised an eyebrow at him. “Nothing moral about some of the arguments I’ve had, Angel.” He said darkly. Alistair felt the shiver run down his spine again. This may not have been the side of Crowley he was expecting to uncover, but by God did it call to him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh? Pray, do tell.” Alistair retorted, his voice low and slightly breathless. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh I don’t pray Angel. And I don’t tell.” Crowley’s voice was like honey, all thick and smooth and promising a sweet reward, if you watched out for the bees and their stings. Alistair could feel the heat in his gaze as Crowley’s body stilled, the delicious tension building between them. Alistair extended a leg out under the table, searching for Crowley's. He felt his ankle brush up against something, but it quickly moved away as Crowley looked down at his food and broke the spell. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can’t, even if I wanted to. Signed the official secrets act. And they do <em>not</em> send rude notes.” Crowley said more lightly, all the tension suddenly dissipating as his body jittered back to life. He picked at his duck leg. <em>Not. A date.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair let out a long, quiet, shaky exhale and sipped his wine, bringing his leg back underneath him. He yearned to find out what this delectable creature was capable of. He seemed so complex, so nuanced. Alistair would never have dared to write such a fascinating character for fear of being too unbelievable, and yet here he was, right in front of him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Mains finished, the waiter reappeared and swapped their plates for a dessert menu. Crowley ordered a ristretto, but Alistair didn’t consider any meal complete without a sweet finish and so ordered Devil’s Food Cake. When the cake arrived, Alistair eyed it hungrily before digging in.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Surely Angel’s Food Cake would have been more appropriate?” Crowley teased, sipping his coffee. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair looked up at him, licking the thick, dark ganache from the corner of his mouth in a manner that Crowley found frustratingly distracting. “Maybe I just fancied a taste of something a little more demonic this evening.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley inhaled his coffee, and doubled over coughing while Alistair smirked. Throat cleared, he looked back up to see Alistair’s eyes crinkling in the corners as he delicately placed the next forkful of dark, sticky, chocolate cake into his mouth, with no small degree of smugness. <em>Bastard.</em> Crowley couldn’t help himself as he watched the next loaded fork go into Alistair’s mouth, gently nudging his tongue before his lips slowly closed around it. He watched the fork glide back out through those impossibly pink lips, now nothing but streaks of dark chocolate ganache left on it. Alistair’s eyelashes fluttered against his pink dusted cheekbones and a small moan escaped as he relished the flavour. Crowley tracked the movement of his throat as he swallowed, before glancing back to the fork, lips parted in anticipation. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you want some of this, you only have to ask Crowley.” Alistair said, looking at him demurely through his lashes, pausing just long enough to make Crowley start to doubt he was talking about cake, then digging the fork back in and holding it out towards him with one eyebrow raised. Crowley was never very good at backing down from a challenge. Before he could remind himself not to, he leant forward, looked Alistair straight in the eye, extended his tongue out and used it to drag the fork into his mouth. He heard Alistair’s intake of breath before he closed his teeth over the fork and drew back, taking the cake from the fork as he went. It was utterly shameless and totally inappropriate behaviour for where he was and more importantly, who he was with, but he felt electrified. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The bastard managed to recover quickly however. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So tell me Crowley, have you ever been in love?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley managed to swallow the cake properly this time, rather than inhale it, as he mentally stumbled at the sudden change in direction. <em>Again with the questions about love… </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘M not really the kind of person you fall in love with.” He said as casually as possible. And it was true. His lifestyle didn’t really leave time for more than short flings. His job wasn’t exactly conducive to building a life with someone and he’d made his peace with that. This was his part in the world, and that was ok. At least, it was...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What? No maidens swooning over you as you carry them to safety?” Alistair looked mock-shocked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley snorted at that. “I don’t make a habit of physically carrying people away from danger. So no, no swooning. You?” He fiddled with his coffee cup's handle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair sighed and put his fork down on his plate. “Well I only tend to carry books around these days and I don't make a habit of swooning. As for love... I thought I was, once. But it turned out to be something completely different, that he just told me was love. After that I decided I was done with relationships. Which turned out to be a blessing in the end, because I wrote my first book, and the rest, as they say, is history.” Alistair picked his fork back up and resumed his pudding. Crowley tried to ignore the first two statements and failed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry you had to be hurt before you could write your stories.” He said, and it sounded so genuine it made Alistair’s heart ache. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not your fault, my dear. These things happen.” <em>To people like me. </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But you didn’t deserve it. How anyone could treat you like that is beyond me, and frankly if he ever comes near you again, let me know and as your bodyguard I will have to have a very morally weighted argument with him.” Crowley said, scowling, and Alistair’s impossibly expressive face found yet another complicated expression that Crowley couldn’t quite work out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh my, that’s… that’s very kind of you my dear, but hopefully it won’t come to that.” He said, his voice tinged with awe. He knew it was Crowley’s job to protect him, but it still felt surreal that someone would want to go to such lengths to do so, for him. He scooped up the last piece of cake and popped it into his mouth before putting his fork permanently back down on the plate. He washed the cake down with the last gulp of red wine and sat back, dabbing his lips fastidiously with the napkin. Crowley found himself staring again. It was ridiculous, and pompous, and something you only ever saw in old movies, but for some reason he loved it. He’d expected Alistair to be the same vacuous, self absorbed, spoilt brat that he’d encountered any time he'd been employed by a celebrity, but he’d turned out to be nothing like he’d ever encountered in his life. He was unbearably humble, for one, and seemed to have made being unobjectionable an art form. Crowley would have thought him a walking doormat, were it not for the flashes of cold, marble core that came out from time to time. The little flashes of bastard that hinted at a strength of personality that Crowley could only hope to aspire to. Had he been religious, he would have called it faith. The one thing that Crowley had never possessed, his blackened brimstone core too volatile to cultivate it. Although, perhaps he just hadn't found the right thing to put his faith in. The right person. Alistair was like a siren calling him in from the stormy seas to safe haven, but instead of the usual rocks on which he would dash himself, Alistair’s harbour had nothing but calm waters where he could ground himself and rest finally, where Crowley felt he might never leave if he dared to let himself be drawn in. For an ever-moving creature, drawn to danger, it was terrifying just how much he wanted to be drawn in. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“My dear that was utterly delightful. I have to thank you for bringing me here, tonight has well and truly lived up to my hopes." Alistair smiled at Crowley in a way that made his stomach flip. </span> <span class="s1">"So far.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And there it was again, that challenge that he knew he was powerless to ignore, that need to please Alistair already consuming him. Crowley smiled and waved for the bill, commandeering the card machine before Alistair had any chance to pay. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You fiend. You didn’t need to do that.” Alistair said, smiling indulgently as they stood up, the waiter returning with their coats. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Meh, I’ll just expense it back to you anyway.” Crowley said with a cheeky grin as he put his sunglasses back on. This earned him a fond tut as they walked back down the hall towards the main entrance, more relaxed with each other than when they entered, but somehow both feeling an even deeper pull towards the other.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then Crowley heard running feet around the corner and all of a sudden Alistair found himself gently, but firmly, pushed against the wall by Crowley's arm, as he took up an unmistakeable position in front of him. Alistair knew he should be afraid, but all he could think about was just how much he wanted to touch the vibrant hair now in front of his face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">Crowley had moved on instinct. He had assumed that the RAF Club would be one of the safest places in the country, but instincts were hard to ignore. He frowned as the running feet brought their owner around the corner and a cadet jogged towards them, looking down at a clipboard, clearly in a hurry to get to something. She completely ignored them as she jogged past, and Crowley waited until she was around the next corner before relaxing his stance.</p><p class="p1">"Thank you." Alistair whispered, behind him. </p><p class="p1">"Mnnnyeh" Crowley grumbled as he moved away and walked off again, hands in his pockets. Alistair's breath on his neck had given him goosebumps and the words themselves weren't helping either. </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally at the front door, Crowley watched the valet scurry off to collect the Bentley while he signed Alistair out again, and they put their coats back on and leisurely made their way outside to the waiting car. Alistair realised that, despite having wanted to get into the RAF Club for years, wanting to explore their art, their archives, their atmosphere, their library, he’d utterly failed at looking at anything apart from the infernally tempting man to his left. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once they were sat back inside the Bentley, Crowley having held the door open again, Alistair sighed at the thought of the night ending. That little moment of protection had only fanned the fire that had been steadily smouldering away inside him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know a couple of bars if you want to get another drink?” Crowley asked, hoping he could let go of the tension the unexpected cadet had unwittingly caused.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh my dear, a drink sounds lovely, but I think I’ve had my fill of public places for the night.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can take you home then, your wine cellar is probably better stocked than most of the bars I know anyway.” Crowley offered. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I suppose so. But I don’t really want to go home either. Michael and Uriel will be there, and they’ll tell me off for drinking at home when I should be working. Michael’s a bit of a stickler for discipline. And I don’t want to get Gabriel upset at me.” Alistair mumbled into his lap. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley saw the disappointment, and knew he couldn’t have that. He couldn’t let anything get in the way of Alistair having a good time tonight. Not when he was in charge. With 'so far' ringing in the back of his mind, and before Crowley had a chance to think, before any part of his brain managed to catch on to what he was about to do, he opened his mouth, and spoke. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You can stay at my place, if you like.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh Crowley. What have you done. </p><p>As for 'Wing Commander', Bond's official rank is 'Commander', but he's Navy, and Crowley is RAF so 'Wing Commander' it is. SAS are very secretive of their rank, so I assumed he would just keep this one for external purposes. </p><p>I don't believe the RAF club actually have a valet, but if they were to try and find parking in that part of London it would have been easier to walk, and I wanted Crowley to drive the Bentley. So for this night? They have a valet. And parking.</p><p>Oh and 'The Running Horse Tavern' is the official name of the pub in the RAF club, and I'm led to believe (and it's not a stretch) that the unofficial name is 'The Cumming Whore', which would be suitably crude for forces humour. </p><p>Fun fact: 'fella' in RAF slang is actually an insult (because 'cunt' lost all its impact through overuse). And Crowley's old squad would definitely know this. But civvies (civilians) wouldn't. Hence Crowley uses it quite a bit.</p><p>'Rock Apes' are apparently what the RAF call themselves.</p><p>'Fubar' is actually derived from F.U.B.A.R. which is a forces acronym, meaning 'Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition'. </p><p>And I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to the next chapter. I'm sorry I've dragged it out, but hopefully you'll agree it's worth it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Date Night pt. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's a piece of music in this, I've put in a footnote link in at the appropriate point with a link to the youtube video if you wanted to play it alongside. It works at my reading speed, but obviously I can't guarantee it will work with yours, but you'll get the idea.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You can stay at my place, if you like.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair looked at him very carefully, while inside his head Crowley screamed at himself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh I couldn’t possibly intrude into your personal space like that.” Alistair said. He said the words, but his tone and face were telling a different story. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re not intruding. I mean, I don’t think my drinks selection is quite as extensive as yours, but I’ve got a couple of bottles of something that looks vaguely decent, I think, although I don't know as much about wine as you do. Gifts from a previous job so could be a bit of gamble actually…” Crowley trailed off. Alistair was still studying him apprehensively. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Oh fuck that sounded so creepy he just wants material for his book you utter prat, </em>he thought, but there was a healthy chunk of doubt creeping in after this evening’s behaviour. Alistair was looking at him very carefully, with a notable absence of response. Eventually he spoke. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, if you need help finding out if they are any good then I’m sure I can take a look.” Alistair said quietly, turning to look out the windscreen at the road around them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley gritted his teeth and tried to shut up all the noise in his head as he started the car. Crashing his boss's pristine classic car was not a good way to end the evening. Not to mention Pepper might actually kill him. The radio burst into life, making Crowley jump. He grunted and switched it off. He was in enough trouble as it was, without being subversively told to ‘relax’ by some twerp on his way to the spiritual home of everything cinematographic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair was hardly breathing. He was going over and over Crowley’s invitation in his head, trying to find the catch. Trying to squash down his burgeoning optimism but only finding butterfly nerves to flutter in their place. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fortunately Crowley’s flat wasn’t far, and while he didn’t own a car, he did have a parking space in the underground carpark. He waved his fob at the sensor and the gates swung slowly open. It was only a small block so it didn’t take long to slide into his space and turn off the engine. Being London he was half expecting to find a squatter in it, or at least some debris, but miraculously, or perhaps because this was a gated car park in Mayfair, the spot had remained free and clear. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The journey up to the penthouse flat was in silence. Crowley slouched against the back corner of the lift as it rose, studying Alistair from behind his sunglasses again. The man was standing so perfectly straight and tall in the centre, his hands tangled in front of his torso. He was looking at the pattern on the wall of the lift, following it as it flowed in and out of the corners around the mirrors. Crowley studied the slope of his shoulder, the junction where it met his neck, the shape confounded by collars and lapels. Alistair’s coat looked to be expensive, probably cashmere, and it fitted him with an ease that suggested tailored, if not bespoke. It draped softly down his back, ending just above his knee. The seam that ran down the centre of his back was perfectly straight and true, <em>much like the owner</em>, Crowley thought. He pondered Alistair’s behaviour over the course of dinner. He’d seemed interested about Crowley’s past, but he’d only asked about his personal history, not anything on the job. Coupled with the frustratingly erotic feeding it was certainly strange behaviour for a fact finding mission. It was more the sort of thing you expected on... In a sudden burst of clarity, Crowley finally saw what he had been hiding from himself, his alarming revelation arriving just as the lift stopped and the doors opened. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Oh Jesus Fucking Christ and All The Chuffing Rest, this </em>is<em> a date.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>And I’ve just invited him back to my place. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I am fucked… </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then the treacherous voice in his head, his inner chimp, the one that always whispered the most dangerous ideas, chimed in. <em>But that's what you want, isn't it… </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>NO. There’s a reason I have a rule about this sort of thing.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>’S more of a guideline, really… </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley snapped back to reality to see Alistair standing in the hallway giving him an inquisitive look as he lingered in the lift. As the doors began to close he lurched forwards, rolling his body off the lift wall, and leapt through the closing gap. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thought I’d lost you for a moment there.” Alistair chuckled nervously. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nah Angel, you’ll always have me.” Crowley hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but he was distracted by his bombshell realisation, and getting his keys out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair followed him down the hallway, a dark, severe space. He should feel worried. He should be uncomfortable, but Crowley was there so he wasn’t. He was so far out of his well-worn comfort zone that he couldn’t even remember why he stayed there so much. As he followed Crowley into his flat, he wondered if he should think of it more as a lair. A demon’s lair, that he was willingly walking into, with no idea who or what he’d be when he left. If he ever left. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Alistair walked in he shrugged off his coat and looked around. The entrance hall was a similar flat, concrete-grey, modernist aesthetic. He was so absorbed with taking in as much as he could that he barely noticed Crowley take his coat to hang it up. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bit dramatic, I know, but I’m rarely here so I just never bothered changing it. Living room is this way.” Crowley said casually as he headed off down the hall and through the large archway on one side, but Alistair could hear a note of nervousness in his voice that hadn't been there earlier.<em> I wonder how many people he brings back here? How many notches will I find on his bedpost?</em> He thought, then recoiled from the pang of jealousy he felt at that thought. He had no right to feel possessive over his bodyguard, and no guarantee he would ever see his bedpost. He slowly followed him down the hallway, but then his eye was caught by a statue at the end, under a spotlight. He walked past the archway and over to the statue to have a look. It was two… angels? Demons? Winged men, certainly. And they appeared to be-</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They’re fighting, Angel. It was a gift from a pretentious banker after I finished a job, and seemed to fit the space.” Crowley said, coming up behind his left shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm.” Alistair said, looking at the two tangled figures thoughtfully. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come on, I’ll find you a glass.” Crowley said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair lingered a moment longer, coming to his own conclusion about the statue. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He made his way back to the archway, and walked through into another large, grey, sleek space, with a very modern looking white leather sofa, a large television mounted on the wall, and a low, glass and copper coffee table sat on a dark rug. Under the television was a low black gloss unit with an equally sleek, black iPod sat on top of it in a dock. A huge floor to ceiling window dominated the opposite wall, its square, gunmetal grey frame bisecting the view of darkened rooftops and city lights. It had a door on one side that led out onto a small balcony that housed a couple of plants in pots, and a single chair. There were a few lamps, but otherwise the space was minimal almost to the extreme. Some banging and clinking noises came from a door on the other side of the room and shortly Crowley emerged with two wine glasses. He had taken off his jacket and was now just in his shirt and preposterously tight trousers. He had removed his cufflinks and the shirt sleeves were folded up just once, exposing slender wrists and a very expensive looking watch. Alistair tried not to stare. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry, took me a while to find the second one. I don’t have many guests.” He said, placing the wine glasses down on the coffee table. Alistair didn’t know whether to feel pity or relief.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Er, right, wine.” Crowley disappeared through the doorway again and reappeared with two bottles of what looked like red wine, one in each hand. “Courtesy of a Greek shipping magnate. This one,” he held up a bottle with a printed label, “is red wine from northern Greece. He gave me a crate of it, promised it was the best in the region but they drink a lot of retsina over there so who knows? But this one,” he held up the other bottle which had what looked like a hand drawn label on it, “is pomegranate wine that his brother makes. He gave me a couple of bottles of it after I tried some at his brother’s house on Naxos. Potent stuff, I can tell you.” Crowley looked at the way Alistair was eyeing the bottle of pomegranate wine with naked desire and smirked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pomegranate it is then.” He said. Crowley poured out two glasses and handed one to Alistair who took a tentative sip. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh I say, it is rather fruity isn’t it?" He said, inspecting his wine. "You have quite a few gifts from previous employers don’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, people can be pretty appreciative when you stop them getting killed.” Crowley said dismissively. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmmm. I shall have to think about what I can give you, once this is all over.” Alistair said, and as he said it Crowley had the sudden realisation that, despite his habit of always keeping half an eye on where he'd go next, for the first time he hadn't even considered the fact that one day he would leave Alistair. The very idea of it left him feeling rather odd.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So what’s the strangest gift you’ve ever been given then?” Alistair asked.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ha! That’s easy, next door.” Crowley said, sauntering back out of the room with his wine glass in one hand, and the other hand half in his pocket again. Alistair followed him, just catching sight of him disappearing into another room tucked away at the end of the hall. It appeared to be a study, with a large, ostentatious, gilded, red marble-topped desk sat in the centre, facing the door. Behind it was an equally ostentatious, gilded monstrosity of a chair with matching red upholstery, which would probably be better described as a throne. Crowley was sprawled on it, a leg draped over one arm, elbow leaning on the other, his wineglass suspended gracefully in his long fingers. The sight stopped Alistair in his tracks, barely through the doorway. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ridiculous, isn’t it. I feel like I should be decadently eating grapes as they dangle above me.” Crowley raised his free hand over himself to mimic eating grapes off the bunch and Alistair had to bite his tongue. Crowley’s neck was stretched beautifully, his angular jaw so prominent, collarbones just peeking out from where his shirt pulled across his chest and mouth slightly opened to receive the imaginary fruit. It was a sinful display of temptation that made Alistair feel weak at the knees. He walked slowly over to the desk, entertaining the idea that Crowley should be being <em>fed</em> grapes, and that he should be the one to do it. As he got closer he could see more of the throne, and suddenly there it was, that wonderful sliver of forbidden flesh where Crowley’s stylish black shirt had ridden up. He dragged his gaze up the languid form in front of him, to Crowley’s face, which was smirking again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright there Angel?” Crowley asked. Alistair merely hummed, then turned his back on him and sat on the edge of the desk. He briefly inspected the sketch on the opposite wall with mild surprise - it appeared to be a Da Vinci of all things, then turned his head to one side and stroked the red marble top lightly with his fingertips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is very cool to the touch, but I’ve never seen marble this colour. Where is it from?” Alistair asked, turning to look at Crowley over his shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“S’not marble. It’s Red Serpentine. A Maharaja’s idea of a joke. They both turned up one day after a job.” Crowley said as he committed the shape of Alistair on his desk to memory for later. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s very generous. You must have saved him from quite a large threat.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well his first offer was his daughter’s hand in marriage, so I think I got off lightly. The delivery crew weren’t too impressed though.” Crowley chuckled. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You didn’t fancy yourself as a Raja then?” Alistair teased.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley snorted. “Nah it’s all a bit too Disney. Besides, Aladdin had more going for him what with the genie and the carpet.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair took a moment to study him again over his shoulder, noting the blush creeping onto Crowley’s razor sharp cheekbones as he did so. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know, you’ve already proven yourself a hero. I could see you as a dashing, swashbuckling rogue, somewhat of a ‘Scarlet Pimpernel’ if you will.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“ ‘They seek him here, they seek him there, those Princes seek him everywhere!’ ” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Exactly dear boy! You just need a sword.” Alistair chuckled at the delightfully debonair image he had in his mind's eye.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah!” Crowley exclaimed, extricating himself from the throne. “That I can do!” He said as he swaggered back out into the hall. Alistair followed after him, taking a moment to enjoy the view. <em>Snake hips, indeed.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley sauntered back into the living room, and Alistair came around the corner just in time to see him thrust his hand behind the large television with a slight frown on his face, his wine glass resting on the low unit underneath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can’t keep this one out on display.” He muttered by way of an explanation as he pulled out a long sword with an ornate scabbard. It was black, with a section of blood red silk wrapped around it, matching the red silk wrapping on the handle. Near the hilt there was a small, gunmetal grey snake, it’s body looped and zig-zagged as if about to strike. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good grief Crowley, do you keep weapons hidden all over the place?” Alistair asked, glancing around. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Force of habit.” Crowley shrugged. “This one was from a Japanese tech tycoon. I can only keep it because of my occupation. Technically you’d want a rapier for swashbuckling rather than a Katana, but I was never much of a swordsman so I never bothered getting my own for ceremonial occasions back in the day.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Less 'swashbuckling' more 'Samurai" then? I had to learn sword handling at school.” Alistair said glumly. “It seemed a bit safer than rugby or football.” He said as he reached for the sword’s handle. Crowley turned it so he could withdraw it safely from its sheath. It made a soft, silky sound as he pulled it out. The blade was spotless. Alistair put one finger out to touch it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t!” Crowley warned quickly, before leaning around the sword and pulling Alistair’s silk, tartan handkerchief from his breast pocket. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Careful there Angel, it’s fiendishly sharp.” Crowley warned, and he flicked the handkerchief into the air and stepped back. Alistair watched it float gently down over the curved blade of the sword, where it seemed to float seamlessly through it, or, no… around it. Alistair watched the now two pieces of silk as they puddled silently onto the floor. He gasped. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well in that case,” Alistair stepped back slightly, drawing himself up and pointing the sword clumsily at Crowley, who was smirking. “Get thee behind me, foul fiend!” The blade was mirror perfect, and for a moment it reflected Crowley’s bright, coppery hair, and almost looked to Alistair as if the sword itself were burning. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley put one hand on his hip with a sigh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Angel, when you said you learnt sword handling, I assumed that meant you actually learnt how to handle a sword. That is not how you hold a Katana. Here, let me show you.” And Crowley stalked around Alistair, who was still holding the sword out in front of him, but with much less confidence than before. Alistair’s pulse started racing when he realised what Crowley was going to do. He tried to keep his breathing even as long, graceful arms wrapped around him from behind, taking his wine glass and putting it on the coffee table, then lifting the hand ever so gently by the wrist. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s a two handed sword, for a start.” Crowley murmured into his left ear, raising goosebumps over his neck. He gently eased Alistair’s hands around, until he had both on the handle, the blade now curving upwards. Alistair could barely think past the feeling of Crowley’s torso pressed into his back, the safety of his arms wrapped around him, and the burning touch of Crowley’s hands over his own on the sword’s handle. He was dimly aware of Crowley talking to him, his face over his left shoulder, the arm of his sunglasses bumping into his cheek. Crowley took one hand off where they held the sword to pull his sunglasses off and Alistair nearly dropped it. He tried to concentrate on what Crowley was saying to him, rather than the slight rumble he could feel on his back from his voice. His heart skipped a beat when he felt Crowley’s leg push gently between his own and apply light pressure to the inside of his right knee and foot, nudging the leg outwards and back slightly to widen his stance. The next thing he knew, Crowley had shifted the angle of the sword and was guiding it down and left in a slow slashing motion, which forced him to bend forward slightly, pressing Crowley’s body even more firmly into his own. It was too much, his whole body was a mess of lit up nerve endings and he couldn’t work out whether to blanche or blush. He let out a quiet, strangled groan, leaning his head back, where it rested on Crowley’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You ok there Angel?” He heard Crowley ask gently. He lifted his head, and forced his eyes open as he turned to face Crowley. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes dear boy, just not used to…” Crowley had also turned his head, and suddenly he was so close that Alistair realised he would barely have to move at all to bring their mouths together. At that thought his eyes glanced down of their own accord and he saw how Crowley’s lips were just barely parted, so ready to be tasted that he didn’t think he could stand it any longer. He dragged his eyes back up to see Crowley’s own, unshielded, molten gold eyes boring into him, unblinking. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“…moving like that.” He breathed, utterly lost in the intensity of the moment. The moment stretched on, and Crowley seemed to lean almost imperceptibly in, and Alistair felt his eyelids sweep down.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then abruptly it was all gone. Crowley wrenched himself away, keeping one hand on the forgotten sword as he deftly slipped it out of Alistair’s loose grip, spinning it around in the air and sliding it neatly back into its sheath at his hip, his back turned to Alistair who rocked from the sudden loss of support. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley stood with his head down, gripping the sword tightly, breathing in deep lungfuls of air. He had come so close. So fucking close to fucking up and he wasn’t sure if he was more angry with himself that he’d been stupid enough to almost kiss Alistair, or that he’d been stupid enough to pull away. And he’d left his fucking sunglasses on the table which was now the other side of those soft grey (<em>Grey? Blue? Make up your fucking mind)</em> eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to forget the feeling of Alistair’s body against his own, trying not to remember the way his hands looked wrapped around the handle of the sword, trying not to think about how much he'd just wanted to carry on wrapping himself around Alistair. He tucked the sword back behind the TV, scooped up his glass and turned to look for the bottle. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Refill.” He mumbled as hands that were only slightly shaking found the neck and poured the ruby liquid into his glass, before topping up Alistair’s glass as well. Crowley picked up the iPod and handed it to Alistair. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Here, you can choose some music. Has a tendency to default to Queen whenever I pick something.” He said. Alistair looked at him blankly. “Just press the button on the side, scroll through ‘til you see something you like, and tap.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair began to scroll. “What on earth is a ‘Velvet Underground?” He asked, his brain still swimming from the abrupt change of direction.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whuurl, s’probably not your thing…” Crowley ventured.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, ‘Be-bop’.” Crowley raised an eyebrow along with the corner of his mouth. Alistair realised he was staring at that delightful smirk as Crowley’s glass suddenly obscured it as he took a sip.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><a id="return-moonlightsonata" name="return-moonlightsonata"></a>Alistair quickly looked down and scrolled until he saw something he recognised. He settled on Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata <a href="#moonlightsonata">1</a>, startling when the first dramatic piano chord seemed to emanate from the very walls. The sound was wonderfully clear, but there seemed to be a distinct lack of speakers. He looked up at Crowley who was smirking slightly less now, and pointed upwards. Alistair followed his hand to see round speakers set discretely into the ceiling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They’re throughout the flat. Saves a lot of hassle if I’m moving around.” Crowley said with a shrug. Crowley put the bottle down on the table and reached out for the iPod. Alistair looked down at his hand and gasped. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh Crowley! You’re bleeding!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley looked down at his outstretched hand and saw that he had indeed nicked his finger, presumably while putting the sword away, and a bright crimson droplet of blood was making its way down his hand. It looked so dark against his pale skin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bollocks.” He spat, withdrawing the hand and shoving the finger in his mouth. Alistair hurriedly placed the iPod and his glass down, then rushed off through the door in the corner which turned out to be the kitchen just as he hoped (dark gloss cabinets, just as he’d expected), and returned with a couple of sheets of kitchen roll. He grabbed Crowley’s hand out of his mouth and, cradling it, pressed the paper towel onto the cut. He pulled Crowley to sit down on the sofa next to him, both of them turned slightly towards the other, knees pressed together. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Goodness, well you did say it was sharp, and with any luck it’s such a shallow, clean cut it shouldn’t leave you with a scar.” Alistair chattered brightly as his eyes swept over the rest of Crowley’s hand. “Any more scars.” He corrected. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pfff, Angel those are nothing. I have plenty of scars, one more tiny one won’t matter.” Crowley said, taking a large gulp of the pomegranate wine. He couldn’t bring himself to remove his hand, and Alistair didn’t seem to be letting go. Instead he seemed to be turning it over, inspecting the marks he found. His gaze swept up over Crowley’s wrist and he pulled one hand away to gently push the shirt sleeve up further, turning Crowley’s arm as he went. His touch was achingly tender. He stopped when he found two lines scored across the outside of Crowley’s forearm. A smooth pale, irregular ‘X’ marked into the skin. Alistair’s eyes found his own, a gentle question framed in his eyebrows. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Knife attack. Long time ago.” He said quietly, gripping his wineglass to stop himself shaking at the touch. He couldn’t remember a time where he’d ever been held so carefully. Alistair’s fingers gently traced the lines.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did the… did the knife find its target?” Alistair asked, a quiver in his voice, eyes locked down to where his fingers had stilled on Crowley’s arm. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not this one. I’d learnt to dodge properly this time.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This time? You mean you've actually been stabbed?! Where?!” Alistair’s eyes were wide and anguished. Crowley couldn’t help himself. He knew he shouldn’t, but he’d never felt so cared for, so safe. He was being drawn in by the siren’s call and, ignoring the little voice screaming at him to remember his rules (<em>guidelines…</em>), he put down his wine glass and undid the buttons on his shirt, pulling one side away to expose the ugly white line on his ribs. Alistair gasped and leant forward to gently stroke the scar with careful fingertips. He caressed the smooth skin, and the dots that framed it either side like centipede legs where it had been stitched. He placed his hand flat across Crowley’s stomach, his fingers just tucking in under the other side of his shirt, steadying himself while he smoothed his thumb tenderly over the scar again and again. Crowley’s mind went blank the moment Alistair’s warm hand pressed against his skin, his breathing shallowed as every nerve in his body focused on that simple, gentle touch. His whole body felt strung out, something tight coiling away in his core waiting to pounce. He couldn’t take his eyes off Alistair’s face even if he wanted to. Couldn’t look away from the pain in his features that he seemed to be trying to soothe by stroking the scar. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh you poor, dear, thing.” Alistair breathed. He was overcome with the sight of Crowley so open before him, the tease of half his beautiful body on display, the hand holding the paper towel to his bleeding finger now over the back of the sofa. He couldn’t help himself and found his own hand moving across Crowley’s stomach to push away the other half of the shirt and exposing his whole torso. Alistair devoured him with his eyes, relishing the dips and curves of his skin as it clung to lean muscle, delighting in the surprising discovery of a thin, silver chain that rested so delicately on his chest. His gaze still on the dark arc of the tattoo where it edged above his waistband. <em>It’s black</em>, he realised, and of course it was, a black pattern of scales curling up and over Crowley’s left hip. His hand stilled on the unadorned hip, and he noticed another scar just below his thumb, diving down below the level of Crowley’s underwear band where it peeked out above his trousers. He gently pushed the elastic down, slightly exposing the graze along his hip.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bullet graze.” Crowley said, ever so quietly, and Alistair let out an anguished sound, once again trailing his thumb along the disfigured flesh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair withdrew his hand and looked at Crowley’s face. His breath hitching as he saw the intense expression, the wide blown pupils not hiding behind darkened glass for once, and a single lock of hair cascading over his forehead. It wasn't fair for one man to be quite so exquisitely beautiful. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What-” Alistair rasped, swallowing thickly, remembering that fateful moment in his hallway, the last time he’d seen this much of Crowley’s skin. “What about the one on your back?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley stood up and stepped past him where there was more space, keeping his back turned. He reached behind and lifted his shirt up at the back to expose a ragged white line across the back of his hip, partially hidden in the snake tattoo.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Belt.” He said, his head hung low to hide his expression. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair was horrified. “Oh, how awful!” He said, standing up and holding Crowley by the arms. He smoothed both thumbs out across his back as Crowley dropped his shirt down again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He only tried it once.” Crowley said, darkly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a moment Alistair stopped his caress, and Crowley’s shoulders drooped. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What about… this one.”Alistair said, tracing his fingertips across Crowley’s shoulder blades. Crowley raised his hands and pushed his shirt back over his shoulders. He let it fall down until it was caught, draped between his elbows, exposing his whole back in all its pockmarked glory. His shoulder blades were peppered with tiny, round craters, fanned out over his back</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Some bastard with a shotgun full of rock salt.” He said bitterly, keeping his face turned away from Alistair. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They look like wings.” Alistair breathed as he brought both hands up to trace the shape with his fingertips. He followed the outline of them down as Crowley hummed, before sliding his fingers up his prominent spine, along the neat scar that looked to be surgical, and out again over the tops of his shoulders. And then it was too much. The intense music and the charged atmosphere combined with the smouldering desire that had been creeping up on him ever since he laid eyes on this divine creature took over and Alistair took another step forward, his body almost touching Crowley who swayed back very slightly into his hands. He let one hand stroke up the side of Crowley’s neck, just brushing the hairline, his movements tantalisingly slow, noting the slight shudder along with the intake of breath, the way Crowley seemed to lean into his touch. His other hand trailed lightly down Crowley’s arm, urging it to straighten, easing the shirt off over his hand before returning to settle on a protruding hip. He watched as the shirt slipped off the other arm too, crumpling on the floor next to them. Alistair could feel Crowley’s hip bone jutting out under his hand and his fingertips curled around it possessively to press into the flesh just inside, as his lips found their way to ever so gently press a soft kiss to Crowley’s right shoulder. Crowley’s skin felt warm on Alistair’s lips. He could feel the taught muscle underneath, the creature poised, waiting to be released. Crowley shivered and his breath hitched as Alistair’s impossibly soft mouth pressed against his oversensitive skin, but he didn’t move away. The fingertips stroking the side of his neck brushed down and Alistair smoothed his hand down Crowley’s back, sweeping around his waist whilst slowly trailing soft kisses along his shoulder. Alistair’s hand came to rest at the base of Crowley’s sternum, finally pulling him gently against his chest as he placed his lips to the side of Crowley’s neck and his head dropped back onto Alistair’s shoulder with a suppressed moan. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley was a wreak. He knew he was done for when the music came on. Doubly so the moment Alistair pushed his shirt open. Not even the disclosure of the scar on the back of his hip had managed to break what had been building between them ever since he started this job, and now he was utterly at Alistair’s mercy. He’d never been held so gently, caressed like this. It was too much and not enough all at the same time. He daren’t move, daren’t breathe in case whatever this was got broken again, but the want that was building inside him was threatening to tear him apart. The final, tender press of lips to his neck was what tipped him over the edge as he groaned into it, now held against Alistair’s body. Against the very prominent firmness now pressing into his buttock. It was only Alistair’s hands on his hip and chest that kept him upright at this moment, and his hands were so impossibly warm on his naked skin. The music came to an end, the moment feeling even more precarious for the silence that followed with bated breath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alistair” He whispered hoarsely. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“M-hmm?” Alistair hummed into the sensitive spot just below his ear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please…” He whined</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please what, you darling thing?” Alistair murmured as he lightly nuzzled the back of Crowley’s neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you want from me?” Crowley asked, resigned to the knowledge that whatever he said, he would do it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I would have thought that was fairly obvious by now.” Alistair rolled his hips forwards slightly to drive the point home. Crowley couldn’t help but push back into it with a gasp. Alistair’s kisses became firmer, his teeth gently nipping into the flesh between Crowley’s shoulder and neck, his hand trailing over his chest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve been yearning to find out what you taste like from the moment I saw you, you infernal fiend. I knew I was lost when you walked away from me on the balcony, swinging those sinful hips.” Alistair’s hand gently squeezed Crowley’s hip where he held it, the other hand lightly mapping out the contours of Crowley’s chest, the curve of his pectoral muscles, teasing over his nipples. “You confound me Crowley, and I fully intend to unravel you completely to work you out.” Crowley wasn’t sure he could unravel any more. He was already in pieces at such a gentle touch. His previous liaisons had all been fast and furious affairs that left neither party questioning the fact that they’d been thoroughly fucked. This, though, this was different. This felt like being cherished. Treasured. It was surreal, and he’d never felt so in focus in his life. Even the cautionary voice in his head had given way to a slack-jawed astonishment. And he was so hard it was starting to get uncomfortable. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He managed to claw back enough self-control to raise his arms and gently remove Alistair’s hands. Freed from the embrace, he stepped slightly forward, and turned to face him. He had just about enough self awareness to know he had a choice now. There were two futures ahead of him, and he had to decide which trouser leg he would go down. He could put a stop to this and walk away, but he would have to walk away from the whole job. Or he could carry on, against all his logic, all his rules, and do the one thing he swore he'd never do. But swearing against something is easy when you've never wanted it, not like this. Then he looked up and Alistair looked confused and hurt at the apparent rejection, and Crowley couldn’t have that. Decision made, he stepped forward again and gently tugged at Alistair’s bow tie, unravelling it. He heard Alistair’s breath catch as he smoothed the two ends down over his chest, feeling the heat of his body rising through his shirt. He felt so invitingly warm compared to Crowley’s meagre lukewarm offering. His hands travelled back up to undo the collar on the shirt. Just one button. For now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“From the moment I saw you I was fucked.” Crowley said, hand and eyes running over Alistair’s clothes as if deciding what to remove next. “All back-lit and angelic and just so impossibly soft.” Alistair’s shoulders drooped slightly and Crowley looked up to see his face had fallen. He remembered how much Gabriel’s words had affected him. “Oh no you don’t Angel. I like soft. Turns out I like soft a lot.” Alistair looked skeptical. “Would I lie to you?” Crowley asked, hands stilling as he looked him straight in the eye. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Isn’t that what demons do?” Alistair asked, shakily. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley snaked one hand around to Alistair’s backside, and the other snapped up to grab both ends of the dangling bowtie. He used both to pull Alistair firmly against him, foreheads and noses bumping together. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Does that feel like a lie to you?” He growled as he pressed his own erection into Alistair’s, gasping at the contact. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then suddenly Alistair threw his hands up, grabbed Crowley around the back of his neck and waist and finally closed the distance between them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley had spent his life chasing danger. Chasing that thrill, that moment when everything came into perfect balance and his whole being focused on one clear aim. That surge of adrenaline that reminded him he was alive. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was nothing compared to the moment Alistair pressed his lips against his. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All the noise, all the scattered parts of his brain that never ceased, all his inability to stop constantly moving, everything stopped in that moment. Crowley had found his calm harbour, and it was everything he never knew he needed. He gave up, right there. There was no way he could ever have stopped what was happening now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair was weak. He knew he was. He knew he could never resist temptation, and Crowley was temptation incarnate as far as he was concerned. He’d spent his life avoiding conflict, hiding in the shadows waiting anxiously for danger to pass him by, but Crowley was all danger and he wanted it all. From the scathing remarks to the sharp lines of his body, from his restless energy to his disregard for his own safety. And yet, here Alistair was, throwing himself into the middle of this raging maelstrom with burning hair and too-cool sunglasses, and he felt no fear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eventually they had to surface for air, foreheads still pressed together as they returned to their own bodies. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well I guess I’d better finish the tour of the flat.” Crowley said lightly through kiss-swollen lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Really, Crowley?” Alistair laughed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Haven’t shown you the bedroom yet.” He smirked.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“…No you haven’t you wily thing.” Alistair smiled. He pulled away and stood up straight, looking at Crowley expectantly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley dropped his hands and picked up Alistair’s, looking down at them as he did so. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck, I love your hands.” He said, running both thumbs over them. “They feel like they could hold the whole world together.” He started to walk backwards towards the hallway, pulling Alistair gently with him, watching his face for any sign of discomfort, and blessedly finding none. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I love your eyes. I wish you wouldn’t wear those pretentious sunglasses all the time.” Alistair said.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘M not very good at hiding my emotions without them.” Crowley mumbled, looking away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Precisely.” Alistair said as they passed through the arch. Crowley paused, but Alistair carried on, crowding him against the opposite wall. “And those two,” Alistair said, his nose just brushing Crowley’s as he pointed to the statue at the end, “are most definitely <em>not</em> fighting.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley grinned. “Yeah, I know. Not sure if the guy who gave me it knew that though. He had a thing for religious imagery.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well I guess the only question that remains, is to work out if it’s an angel fucking a demon, or a demon fucking an angel.” Alistair said, eyebrow raised as he let his gaze sweep over the delicious body in front of him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alistair Zira Fell! Where did you get such a filthy mouth?” Crowley laughed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“S’pose I borrowed yours.” Alistair purred. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Well then I’d better take it back.” Crowley said and kissed him again. There was less urgency this time, more intent radiating from them both. He pushed Alistair’s jacket over his shoulders and down his back. While Alistair was fighting to get it off his wrists, Crowley started on the waistcoat buttons, but his fingers wouldn’t cooperate while Alistair’s tongue was caressing its way into his mouth, so, finally freed as the jacket was flung out of sight and out of mind, Alistair brought his hands up to undo them and they both kicked off their shoes. Alistair was expecting the concrete floor to be cold, but it felt warm underfoot. He let out a small surprised sound. </span> <span class="s1">It took Crowley a moment to work out what had stilled </span> <span class="s1">Alistair's movements. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Underfloor heating Angel. I don't like having cold feet." He grinned, resuming his campaign on the small section of Alistair's neck that he could reach. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Alistair leaned back to pull the waistcoat off Crowley took advantage of the moment and neatly stepped away from the wall, taking Alistair’s dangling bowtie in one hand to lead him towards the bedroom. They both chuckled at this, and when Alistair had finally escaped his waistcoat and <em>oh lord, suspenders. Since when did I find suspenders so scintillating? </em>Crowley stumbled backwards into his bedroom, pausing in the doorway. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was everything Alistair had expected. Minimally furnished, the enormous bed with its soft grey sheets and matching headboard dominated the room. The light from the hallway spilled in, making it seem even more like a lair. Crowley let go of the tie to go turn on the bedside lamp and Alistair followed him closely, so when Crowley turned around they were once again face to face. Alistair put his hands on Crowley’s hips and buried his face in Crowley's neck. He kissed his way from his ear down and across his shoulder, before dropping down to his knees in front of him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How about you show me the rest of this tattoo…” He suggested, trailing his fingers inside Crowley’s waistband where the snake vanished beneath it. He looked up at Crowley, at dark, heavy-lidded eyes, a face in harsh shadows and stark highlights from the lamp behind him, at a mouth hanging slightly open and hair flopped forward and mussed up from his hands, and it utterly took his breath away. Alistair had to take a moment to appreciate the pinnacle of temptation in his hands, this hitherto unknown Girodet masterpiece that he was uncovering layer by layer. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley couldn’t move. His brain had had to reboot at the sight of Alistair kneeling before him like that, looking up into his eyes with such unshielded lust. Alistair licked his lips and began to undo Crowley’s trousers, seemingly not caring as his hands brushed and teased the not inconspicuous bulge inside them in the process.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck, Angel. You… hnnnn… you sssssure you haven’t got a healthy ssssstreak of demon in you?” Crowley rasped, unable to look away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alistair looked up at him again, very serious. “Not yet my dear, but I intend to.” He said, before divesting Crowley of his trousers and underwear down in one fluid motion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh… Oh my… So that’s what Tinny meant…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ngk!”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Did I really just put you through six and a half thousand words of dramatic build up to fade to black? </p><p>Yep. Sorry. Suffice to say Alistair is going to leisurely indulge, and Crowley is going to lose his mind in the best possible way. I haven't popped my outright porn cherry yet, but maybe one day I'll come back and write the missing scene. <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636912">(I did it, it's here.)</a></p><p>Also - Red Serpentine is a real thing. It looks like marble, it's pretty rare, and used predominantly in luxury furniture. Crowley is absolutely going to have a desk made out of it, and Neil is absolutely sneaky enough to give him one.</p><p><a id="moonlightsonata" name="moonlightsonata"></a><sup>1</sup> If you want to hear it, this is the version I had in mind for this scene. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbTVZMJ9Z2I">Beethoven - Moonlight Sonata (1st Movement), by Rousseau, (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbTVZMJ9Z2I)</a><br/><a href="#return-moonlightsonata">Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Paying the Price</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have been so blown away by the response to the last chapter! So as a thank you, I guess I'm writing that missing section, eh? *Whelp* Bear with me, I'm staring down the twin barrels of small children and summer holidays so it'll take some time. Not to mention I'm going to have to get over my victorian compulsion for euphemisms and allusions if this is going to be in any way understandable lol. (Reader, I did it...)</p>
<p>Meanwhile, we shall forge on with the plot. Get your tickets handy folks, we're about to board the angst train.</p>
<p>Joining us from the missing chapter? <a href="#return-welcomeback">Skip past the bit you've already read.</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Crowley woke up to darkness, his mind scrambling to make sense of the sensation of something out of place, but not unwelcomely so, when he realised it was Alistair’s head tucked into his shoulder, his preposterously soft platinum curls gently tickling his chin. Before he could dwell on the unusual sense of peace the weight of the arm across his chest brought him, he carefully extricated himself, retrieved his boxers from the floor and padded silently out of the room and into the plant room next door.</p>
<p class="p1">He stalked around his indoor garden, turning on a small lamp on the floor so he had a low light that wouldn’t disturb Alistair. The light from it was a warm yellow, obscured only where it threw huge, arching shadows on the ceiling of all the leaves, enclosing the space in a silhouetted canopy. The lights of London twinkled at him through the floor to ceiling window, the usual pulsing line of aeroplanes descending towards Heathrow visible on the horizon. Crowley prowled around inspecting the watering system, topping up the liquid feed container and making sure everything was working as it should. He’d paid an eye watering amount of money for this to be installed so his garden would be maintained in his absence, and nothing less than perfection would be tolerated. He tried to quietly hiss a few warnings here and there but his heart just wasn’t in it. Satisfied that each plant was getting everything it needed, he sank gently down on the thick, fluffy, cream rug in the centre of the room to let the enormity of the situation he had gotten himself into, sink in. He shuffled about a bit before settling, unused to the slightly raw feeling.</p>
<p class="p1">This room, this oasis filled with the smell of damp earth and lush vegetation, was his calm space. It was as close as he ever got to just stopping. Or at least it had been. He tried to sort through the cacophony of emotions that were whizzing around in his head. It was rare for him to feel this conflicted about a course of action, but Alistair… well, Alistair was different. He’d let himself give in to it, be taken over by it, and now he had to face the consequences. Distractions like this, <em>feelings</em>, clouded his judgement. Logic was cold for a reason. He was never as sharp as he needed to be when cold logic became too fuzzy, and it put everyone in danger. He was so lost in thought, head buried in his hands that he almost lashed out when strong fingers scraped gently at his scalp and down his neck. As it was, he flinched so violently that the hand withdrew with a gasp.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair, I’m combat trained. Did you not remember what happened last time you snuck up on me?” He grumbled into his hands.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair dropped down next to him. He hadn’t bothered to clothe himself. Crowley sneaked a sideways glance, the sight of Alistair naked in the soft lighting yet another image he wanted to store away forever, then reached over and held his hand where it lay in his lap, interlacing their fingers in a bid to calm his racing heart.</p>
<p class="p1">“I don’t recall complaining about it at the time.” Alistair grinned at his surprised expression, leaning sleepily into his side. It was an easy intimacy that took Crowley’s breath away, and yet felt so natural. “These are gorgeous!” He whispered, looking at the plants in dark coloured pots that covered every available space on the edge of the room, and quite a bit of the floor too. “They are all simply wonderful.”</p>
<p class="p1">“No, no, no! Don’t be soft on them, they’ll think they can get away with spots.” Crowley hissed, glaring around the room. Alistair looked at him quizzically.</p>
<p class="p1">“Talking to plants helps them grow. I just let them know what is expected if they want to grow here.” He growled. Alistair gave him a look that suggested he had seen a lot further into that statement than Crowley was prepared for.</p>
<p class="p1">“Which one’s your favourite then?” Alistair asked, his voice again just above a murmur in the comforting half-light.</p>
<p class="p1">“I don’t have favourites.” Crowley said darkly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh come now, there must be one that brings you a smidgeon of joy.” Alistair let out a dozy laugh that ended with a yawn that had Crowley wondering since when did he find fully grown men adorable? Since when did he find anything 'adorable', for that matter, he was a highly trained protection operative. He didn't do 'adorable'.</p>
<p class="p1">“Nope. They all have to earn their place here.”</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair sighed. “I like forget-me-nots. Not that I can grow anything, you’ve seen my garden, but they seem to manage by themselves, popping up wherever they please with their charming little flowers. And when I see them I know warmer weather is coming. Come now, introduce me. What’s that one?” Alistair asked, pointing to a plant in front of them in the window in a dark blue pot, all tall spikes of green edged in yellow.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sansevieria. Also known as snake plant. The lads gave me it when I left active service. Their idea of a joke.” Alistair leaned his head down on Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley rested his cheek into his moonlight curls. It was impossible not to, they were right there. </p>
<p class="p1">“How appropriate.” Alistair commented, glancing down towards the tattoo and bemoaning the presence of underwear. “And that one?” He asked, pointing to a large plant rambling up the grey wall with slender, green, heart shaped leaves that were marred with streaks of white.</p>
<p class="p1">“Epipremnum aureum, or Devil’s Ivy. If you water it too much, it cries the extra water out of the tips of its leaves.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re making that up!” Alistair chuckled, and Crowley could feel the vibrations of it down his side, soothing and joyful at the same time.</p>
<p class="p1">“Nope. It’s a voracious bugger as well. It’ll take over given half the chance, smothering everything in its path.” He glared at it.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alright, what about that one? Does it shoot spines at me perhaps, if I water it too much?” Alistair pointed to a low explosion of thick, fleshy, grey-green leaves with dark spines at the tip, sat in a low, grey pot in the window next to the snake plant. Crowley chuckled.</p>
<p class="p1">“No, that’s an agave. Agave Macroacantha, or large-thorned Agave. Spiky little buggers, they’ve got thorns down the edges of the leaves, and the spikes at the leaf tip are dark as well so you don’t see them until they’re half way into your hand. It's a desert plant so they don't need too much water, but the spikes make it a pain in the arse to handle come repotting time. This one's ornamental, but its relative, the Blue Agave, only flowers once before dying, and the sap from its flower is used to make tequila. The sap from the leaves makes agave syrup so while they’re razor sharp on the outside, they’re actually really sweet on the inside.”</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair twisted his head to look up at him with another all too knowing expression and Crowley nearly lost himself in the way the light reflected in his serene blue eyes. It felt like those eyes saw right through him, and it was bizarrely comforting. </p>
<p class="p1">Crowley sighed. “Look, Alistair, this” he began, lifting their clasped hands, “I can’t do this. This was a mistake. I’m… I’m your bodyguard, I can’t get tangled up like this.” Alistair sat back to look at him properly. He looked crushed. Crowley’s chest hurt.</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s the ultimate cliché and it never works out. I’ve seen it happen too many times. I can’t protect you like this. I can’t be who you want me to be. Not as well as being what you <em>need</em> me to be right now, and right now there is still a credible threat to your safety. I have to focus on that, for your sake. I’m sorry.”</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair looked like he was about to cry. “But… you said…” he started. Crowley’s throat felt tight.</p>
<p class="p1">“And I meant every word of it Angel. I did. You have done nothing wrong, this is all on me. But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t do this. I can’t get involved with someone I need to protect.” He still couldn’t let go of Alistair’s hand. If anything he was gripping it tighter.</p>
<p class="p1">“So that’s the way it has to be then?” Alistair asked, his voice icy cold and piercing.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m afraid so.”</p>
<p class="p1">“No. You don’t just get to say what you did, <em>do</em> what you did, what <em>we</em> did, and then walk away like this. I thought you were on my side?” Alistair was getting angry.</p>
<p class="p1">“I don’t like it any more than you do, but you’ll either have to live with it, or fire me.” Crowley said, turning away.</p>
<p class="p1">“But I can’t fuck you?!” Alistair pushed Crowley’s hand out of his lap. This wasn’t fair.</p>
<p class="p1">“No. You can’t. We can’t. When I take you home in the morning, that’s it. I’m sorry.” Crowley looked down into his lap. Why was his chest hurting so much? He tried sucking down a few deep breaths but it didn’t help. He felt angry, and jittery, and the pain in his chest just wouldn’t FUCK OFF.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair looked at him, hurt and angry and disbelieving. There had to be a way to make this work, there just had to.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley felt Alistair's hand come up to gently cup his cheek, and urge his head up, to look into his face which was suddenly much closer again and he felt the rising tide of whatever the fuck he was feeling fade away. Crowley didn’t want to look into his eyes, but he’d always been prone to self-sabotage. </p>
<p class="p1">“It’s not morning yet.” Alistair said quietly, his thumb brushing over Crowley’s lip before his hand swept around to the back of his neck and buried itself in his hair.</p>
<p class="p1">“No. It’s not.” He murmured back, leaning into him, hating himself for how much he needed this, for being weak, for craving the closeness so desperately. Hating the way he buried himself in Alistair’s neck, greedy and insistent, as he tipped him gently backwards onto the fluffy rug. Hating the way Alistair went so willingly.</p>
<p class="p1">It would be enough. It had to be.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p><p>
  <a id="return-welcomeback" name="return-welcomeback"></a>
</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Later that morning Crowley woke up back in his bed to daylight streaming in. For a brief moment he expected Alistair’s head to be on his shoulder again, and he felt his heart and mood plummet when he realised that not only was he not there, but he wouldn’t be again. He rolled onto his side and curled up, tried to block the daylight out, pretend it wasn’t morning.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh! You’re awake!” Alistair sounded far too cheerful, and somehow that made his chest hurt even more.</p>
<p class="p1">“Crowley, the most wonderful thing has happened! I’ve been nominated for a Booker award! Can you believe it?!” Crowley rolled back over and looked at him blearily. He was sat up in bed leaning against the upholstered headboard looking at his phone, still naked, literally beaming. His face seemed so bright that Crowley ended up squinting as his eyes got used to being open.</p>
<p class="p1">“Thssss… good? Issit? Whass a ‘Booker’?” He mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his face.</p>
<p class="p1">“The Booker Prize?! It’s huge! It’s an award given only to fiction written in the English language. The head of the committee is Frances McDormand, a very highly respected voice in the literary community. She’s so influential everyone calls her ‘God’!” Crowley dragged himself up to sit next to him, one knee up and the covers bunched strategically into his lap. He’d just woken up, and Alistair was still resplendent in his birthday suit, after all. He shifted slightly, aware of a lingering echo of discomfort. </p>
<p class="p1">"You, er, all ok?" He asked sheepishly. Alistair looked at him for a moment before realisation dawned.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh! Yes, absolutely fine dear boy. You? You know, she gave me a pen, once.” Alistair said, wistfully. “Years ago. It was a competition for students to enter short stories and I won. At the awards ceremony she gave me a beautiful golden fountain pen, with a red and orange marble-effect exterior, like fire. I cherished it - used it always.” He tailed off.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley was blushing slightly. “Yeah. 'M fine. So. What happened, ran out of ink?” He asked, hoping to distract from any further questions.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh! Um, no, I, er, gaveitaway.” He said quietly.</p>
<p class="p1">“You…Wot?” Crowley wasn’t sure if his brain was properly awake yet. He rubbed his face in case it made it make more sense. </p>
<p class="p1">“I gave it away! I was at a big signing event with some other authors, and one of them ran out of working pens. He was panicking, and he had a much bigger line than I did, so I just said ‘Here, take it, and get back over there.’ And that was the last I saw of him.” Crowley made a mental note to see a doctor soon and get his chest looked at. Whatever was going on couldn’t possibly be healthy. All this squeezing and swooping. It was ridiculous.</p>
<p class="p1">“The Beaker-”</p>
<p class="p1">“Booker.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Exactly. The award sounds fantastic Alistair. You thoroughly deserve it.” Crowley half smiled at him before a massive yawn escaped. Alistair marvelled at how different Crowley seemed, how much softer he was when he'd just woken up, delightfully scruffy and softly human, with the last tendrils of sleep falling away.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well now, I'm not sure I agree but there you go. Oh my goodness, there will be so much to do! I… I don’t even know what we need to do next. I won't win of course, the other nominees are so much more talented than me so I won't need to prepare a speech thankfully, but it’ll be fun going to all the events. Michael and Gabriel will be pleased. I’m never entirely sure they actually like what I write.” He smiled bashfully.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair, you have every chance of winning. You’re br- your books are brilliant, and you deserve this.” He looked at him seriously.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair gave him one of the gooiest looks he had ever seen, brought one hand up to his cheek and leant in to kiss him. Crowley jerked back, eyes wide, body tensing up, and Alistair’s hand dropped. He wished he could stop this stupid aching in his fucking chest. Alistair’s face fell as he looked away. <em>Trust me to ruin a fucking epic moment for him</em>, Crowley thought.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, right, morning. Yes. Terribly sorry.” Crowley couldn’t stand the look on his face, the droop of his shoulders.</p>
<p class="p1">“Uh, look, I don’t really do breakfast, and I wasn’t anticipating being here this morning, so there isn’t much in the way of food in the flat. We could stop off at the bakery down the road on the way back to yours?” He offered.</p>
<p class="p1">"Oh that won't be necessary, I'm sure I can manage until we get home." Alistair said dismissively. Crowley felt a pang of yet another thing he couldn't name at the words 'we' and 'home' together like that.</p>
<p class="p1">“It's on the way anyway Alistair. Go on, my treat. They do really good brioche I'm told, and I've been meaning to try their coffee for a while.” Well he had. Sort of. He'd thought about it at least. </p>
<p class="p1">“Well I suppose you do need your coffee. And as we're going anyway, something to nibble would be lovely my d- uh, Crowley.” Alistair said. Crowley nodded and swung his legs out of the bed. Thankfully he’d had the presence of mind to put his pants back on last night. This morning. Whatever.</p>
<p class="p1">“You can use the en-suite, I’ll use the guest bathroom. There should be some fresh towels, and you can use whatever you find in there.” He gestured towards a door on one side of the room as he strolled as casually as he could out of the bedroom, without looking back.</p>
<p class="p1">Awkward. Messy. This was exactly why he didn’t do this.</p>
<p class="p1">And yet, nobody had ever made him feel the way Alistair did. And what was that saying about breaking some eggs to make an omelette? But the fact still remained, he couldn’t do his job if he was thinking about Alistair too much. Relationships were a distraction, and distractions cost lives.</p>
<p class="p1">He had a sneaking suspicion that it was already way past that though.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p><hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Crowley reversed into the garage, ignoring the radio as he concentrated on manoeuvring several metres of classic car backwards. He missed the way Alistair's face tightened at the deceptively upbeat sound of someone singing 'don't you want me baby?'. He was sat in the passenger seat with half the bakery wrapped up in a bag on his lap having ordered one of nearly everything after being unable to decide, and then refused to eat them in the car knowing Pepper would be annoyed at him for making crumbs. No amount of Crowley reminding him that it was <em>his</em> car would sway him. The drive back had been tense, with barely a word spoken between them once they'd got dressed. Alistair had used Crowley's shampoo and the combination of scents that had filled the car wasn't helping Crowley's attempts to rebuild that boundary between them. He tried to block out the feeling that he'd been a complete arsehole long enough to get Alistair home. As soon as they stopped, Alistair threw open his door and practically fled out of the car and into the house without looking back.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley dropped his head forward onto the steering wheel, sunglasses squashed into his nose. He hadn't registered the song change but suddenly Meatloaf was roaring about being gone when the morning came and Crowley jabbed the button to turn it off. He allowed himself a few moments of frustration and despair, before he pulled himself together, set his face back to its usual ‘surly bastard’ and sat up. Pepper was glaring at him through the driver's window. She looked livid and Crowley mentally upgraded her from Valkyrie to Fury. He wound down the window.</p>
<p class="p1">“What did you do.” She ground out through gritted teeth, hands on hips and fire in her eyes.</p>
<p class="p1">“Relax Pepper, the car is fine. I have secure parking, she’s just been treated to a night away with some very expensive company, all of whom she utterly outclassed.” He said wearily, moving to open the door but Pepper shot out a hand to slam it shut again, trapping him in the vehicle.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m not talking about the car, Crowley. What. Did you do.” She was so angry she was shaking.</p>
<p class="p1">“What do you mean Pepper?” Crowley asked wearily, knowing full well what she meant.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair. I have never known - never! Known him to turn down warm pastries, and yet he has just thrust an entire bag at me claiming no appetite. So. Last time Crowley. What. Did. You. Do. And you had better have a good explanation if you don’t want me to get Anathema to curse you. Because she can, you know.”</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t bothered to style it today and knew it looked shit. He felt shit. It worked.</p>
<p class="p1">“I…ugh. I can’t be what he wants me to be Pepper. Not while there’s an active threat. Not if I’m going to keep you all safe. I can’t do it.” He said quietly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Can’t? Or won’t?” She asked, raising one eyebrow.</p>
<p class="p1">“Can’t. Seen it before. It never ends well. I can’t do that to him. I can’t put him in danger like that.” Crowley’s throat was doing that stupid fucking tight shit again and it was making his voice sound weird. His hands had found their way back to the steering wheel, knuckles white under the tension. It was all too much. He threw open the car door and mercifully this time Pepper moved. He strode out of the garage and down to his room as quickly as he could without looking up. If he had, he would have seen the pitying look on Pepper’s face.</p>
<p class="p1">But Crowley had work to do. There would be a nominations party in a week’s time, and he needed to prepare. He needed something to throw himself into to stop him thinking about how much he despised himself right now.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p><hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Tracy knocked softly on Alistair’s door. When she didn’t hear any noise, she opened the door just a crack.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair? It’s me love, Tracy. I brought you a nice cup of tea. Can I come in?”</p>
<p class="p1">She heard a sob from inside the room. She hedged her bets, opened the door fully and walked in.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh Mr F., what on Earth’s happened?” She asked, walking over to where he was slumped in an armchair. He had changed his clothes and last night's lay in a crumpled heap by the bed. She put the cup of tea down on the table in front of him, noting the tissues strewn all over it, and his red and puffy face from crying.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m so sorry, my dear, just give me a moment and I’ll be fine.” He sniffled, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. “You must think I’m rather daft.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh don’t be ridiculous. We’ve been here before, haven’t we?” She reminded him gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.</p>
<p class="p1">“I know. Why must I always be so naive? I should have seen this coming.” Alistair said glumly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sweetheart do you want me to spike his food or something?” Tracy offered.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair barked out a mirthless laugh. “No, no my dear, that won’t be necessary. In truth, he has been nothing but a gentleman, and we do still need him to be able to do his job. Which is why it hurts so much I suppose, it’s my own foolishness that led to this. I can’t blame this one on him. I’ll be alright, really I will. I’m just being an old silly.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Well don’t wallow too long lovely, you’ve got a big party coming up! Just the thing to take your mind off this.” She patted his shoulder and left again, with only a momentary pause to glance back as she closed the door.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair broke out into fresh sobs as he heard her footsteps retreat back downstairs. He couldn’t blame Crowley for not wanting him. He’d been throwing himself at the poor man pretty much since he’d arrived. Crowley had been nothing but professional about it, and he had taken advantage of him. He couldn’t blame Crowley for not wanting to pursue this. Not wanting his fussy habits, his reclusive lifestyle. He couldn’t fault him for not wanting to be saddled with his low self-esteem. He couldn’t find fault with <em>him</em>, at all.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p><hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">To say the following week was awkward would be an understatement. Crowley seemed to be firmly in everyone’s bad books, and he couldn't even pretend he didn't deserve it. He would enter the room, and Alistair would find an excuse to leave, his expression becoming colder and colder. Crowley started eating at weird times of day again to give him space. Michael would glare at him if she even acknowledged his presence and Uriel clearly hated him, but kept her distance, instead sticking with Alistair. Tracy and Pepper were just exasperated by them both.</p>
<p class="p1">For the first time in a very long time, they did not have their weekly family lunch.</p>
<p class="p1">Anathema ran endlessly between them making sure important information wasn’t lost, despite Alistair’s increasing attempts to confound the problem. He could be a right bastard when he wanted to be, and after a few days of Uriel talking him around, he definitely wanted to be. But, somehow, they managed to make a plan for the nominations party. When the evening came, everyone gathered in the entrance hall again, preparing to leave together. Crowley wore a simple black suit with a black shirt underneath. The suit was a plain, matte texture, and impeccably tailored. His role tonight was to blend into the background, but that didn’t mean he had to look like a waiter. He still had his trademark shrink-wrap trousers, and camouflage-crutch sunglasses, but now they hid dark circles and bloodshot eyes. He was thrumming with nervous energy and pre-match adrenaline. If someone wanted to hurt Alistair, then this would be a perfect chance. Lots of people who didn’t know each other (and if they did they probably hated each other), all mashed together with low lighting, high expectations and gallons of booze. It was a safety nightmare, and like all the best nightmares it had cost him a lot of sleep. He lurked by the wall, separate from the women gathering in the centre of the tiles. Everyone had been invited, and Anathema was talking about seeing Newt there. It turned out their time locked in the back room of the bookshop while Crowley caused trouble out on the main floor had been spent doing much more than just hiding. High-stress situations tended to do that to people, Crowley mused.</p>
<p class="p1">Anathema had chosen a midnight blue, iridescent silk, structured gown, with a high black lace collar, the lace extending down over the bodice, and pockets hidden in the side seams of the skirt. Her hair was secured in a high bun, her eyes bright in their dramatic, smoky outline. Pepper and Uriel shunned skirts in favour of a daringly low cut, black tuxedo, and a white, sharply tailored jumpsuit respectively. Natural hair, Pepper was dripping with gold jewellery and a blood red lip, Uriel choosing to pare back for safety’s sake, which only served to highlight her flawless skin. Tracy made up for the collective lack of colour with a billowing riot of orange and red chiffon, nipped in at the waist and tamed only by the matching retro tweed jacket she’d covered her shoulders with. Her wrists jangled merrily with bangles as they moved. Michael stood to one side in an off-white suit with ruffled lace cascading from the collar and sleeves, hair pulled up into a looping, coiled fauxhican, still tapping away at her phone, checking last minute arrangements. Michael would be working tonight.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair was the last to come down. He’d spent a lot of time deliberating, then decided to wear his favourite suit again. He liked the way the blue waistcoat brought out his eyes, and if he’d worn it only last week, well that didn’t mean anything. He just knew what he liked. And it still had the pin attached.</p>
<p class="p1">He purposefully didn’t look at Crowley as he walked down the stairs to meet the rest of the group. It hurt too much, the echoes of last week still bouncing around the walls. The shirt and waistcoat had been laundered, but he realised as he put it on, he could still faintly smell Crowley on his jacket, still detect his intoxicating mix of spices, with that elusive earthy undertone. As he got to the bottom of the stairs he took a deep breath, inhaling the scent, and gave his little family a weak smile. Bless her, even Uriel gave him an almost-smile back. She leaned in close, the thin line of gold shimmer on her eyelids glittering as she moved.</p>
<p class="p1">“Just say the word Alistair, and I can break his legs. Just a nod would do.” She offered, her voice low so it wouldn’t carry. Alistair merely squeezed her arm and smiled at her. Pepper gave Alistair a hug.</p>
<p class="p1">“You look fab Mr A. Ready to start a new instagram trend.” She told him.</p>
<p class="p1">“If I knew what that meant my dear, I’m sure I’d be grateful.” He tried to laugh, but his heart wasn’t in it. None of the fragile pieces really felt like expressing joy right now. He'd seen Crowley where he stood leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, sunglasses on, a nonchalant sliver of night in black tailored armour, impossibly handsome and effortlessly cool and his heart ached. </p>
<p class="p1">Crowley’s eyes had darted to Alistair as he got to the top of the stairs on pure instinct, his brain trained to notice movement. He hadn’t been able to look away, keeping his face turned to the side but his eyes following Alistair’s descent from behind the dark circles through which he viewed the world. He looked every bit as breathtaking as he did the last time they’d had this dance, Crowley’s hands itching with the memory of those fabrics beneath them. The feel of the buttons as he’d fumbled with them, the impossible cloud softness of his hair. The knowledge of how that bow tie was knotted, and what it looked like as it unraveled invaded his thoughts. <em>I wonder if he has those suspenders on again?</em> He found himself thinking, and firmly pushed that thought away. This time there would be no hesitant glances, no butterflies, no soft caresses and definitely no passionate meeting of mouths and bodies. This time it just hurt - his twitching hands confined to memories, his treacherous heart aching in a way he didn’t understand. He watched as the ladies all crowded round Alistair, taking care of him in a way Crowley knew he would never be able to. He pushed everything down, shut it all away in the hope that it would stay under lock and key for long enough to get through the evening. He took a deep breath and pushed himself off the wall.</p>
<p class="p1">“Right, you all know the drill tonight. If I give you an instruction, I need you to obey it. Uriel, we’re a team tonight, yes?” He looked at her pointedly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, I know the drill.” She said, glaring at him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Does that mean you’re going to be all over me all night again?” Alistair asked in an icy tone, his expression no less glacial. Several sets of eyes flicked to each other, then between the two men as the air electrified.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley didn't face him. “I didn’t think that would be wise. Uriel will be doing close protection, I’ll be observing from a distance.” He had to remain professional. Not rise to whatever… this, was.</p>
<p class="p1">“Capital. I wouldn’t want to be too much of a distraction from your job.” Alistair said, offering his arm to Uriel who gladly took it as he swept past Crowley towards the door.</p>
<p class="p1">“I believe the taxi should be here by now.” He said as he passed. Soon Crowley was left at the back of the group as they all crowded out of the door with coats in hand, feeling slightly sick somehow. Crowley trailed after them all towards the minibus taxi outside, sliding into the passenger seat without a word. It was going to be a long evening.</p>
<p class="p1">The nominations party was at the Bandstand Club, and, being such prestigious event, meant red carpet, photographers, and press to negotiate. Crowley and Uriel discretely flanked Alistair as they walked up towards the door, keeping an eye out for anyone looking a little bit <em>too </em>interested in him. Michael had gone on ahead and was guiding Alistair to selected press members so he could feed them pre-prepared soundbites. Crowley could see the way his smile was only skin deep. Not like the smiles he’d turned his way before… before he’d fucked it all up.</p>
<p class="p1">Eventually they made it inside, leaving coats with the cloakroom, and Anathema, Pepper and Tracy wandered off to explore. The club was a vast space, and the usual mess of lighting rigs and conduit on the ceiling had been covered with swathes of white fabric that softened the harsh spotlights, giving the room a gentler atmosphere. At one end was a stage with red curtains around it, and there were two, long bars, one on either side of the room, with soft purple and pink lighting alongside the spots trained on the bartop. The club was full of people, all dressed up and milling around the tables dotted throughout, looking to see who had seen them. The noise level was already creeping up as the generic background lounge music competed with voices all greeting each other with more enthusiasm than sincerity. Uriel was in position with Alistair, so Crowley skulked up to Michael.</p>
<p class="p1">“Who’s here then, who can you see that I should know about?” He asked. She gave him a disdainful look out of the corner of her eye.</p>
<p class="p1">“Just want to know who I can ignore if they make a bee-line for Alistair, before I get told off for overreacting.” He reassured her.</p>
<p class="p1">She sighed. “Right. Well the most obvious one is her.” Michael discretely pointed to a mature woman up on the stage in white, conversing with a crew member head to toe in black. “That’s Frances McDormand, the buck stops with her. If she approaches, you don’t even breathe in her direction. There’s lots of other critics and editors et cetera, Gabriel should be here somewhere,” Crowley grunted his displeasure, “but the only one we should watch out for, is him.” Michael motioned to an older gentleman who looked very much like he’d wandered in off the street. He wore a dark green woollen suit, with a tired looking pinstripe shirt. He held a pint of dark beer in one hand, surveying the crowd. He noticed Michael looking this way and raised his glass at her with a scowl. She snapped into her fakest smile and nodded back as he looked away.</p>
<p class="p1">“That, is Mr. Shadwell. They call him ‘The Sergeant’. Toughest critic out there. Seems to hate fiction so goodness knows why he reviews it for a living, and has a tendency to find sordid meaning in everything. Particularly anything to do with women, and anything he considers ‘occult’. Unfortunately he works for the Telegraph, so we need to keep him sweet.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Right, gotcha. Anyone else?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Nobody that important. Just keep out of Alistair’s way, you’ve already done enough damage. I need him to talk to people tonight, not mope around like he has been all this week.” Michael gave him one final scowl before heading off into the crowd.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley shook off the surge of regret, and began his circuit of the room. He’d been to plenty of functions like this before, and knew what was expected of him. Watch, but from a distance. So that’s what he did, circling around Alistair far enough away that you wouldn’t know what he was doing unless you could trace his path in the air. He blended in, slithering seamlessly between other guests, taking note of anyone who looked tense. Which turned out to be almost everyone. And he'd thought the world of books would be boring...</p>
<p class="p1">Soon ‘God’ herself took to the stage and gave a welcome speech with the usual congratulations for the shortlisted authors, commiserations and honorary mentions for those that didn’t make the list, and gratitude for everyone attending. Crowley wound his way up behind Alistair during the speech, making sure he was behind him, preventing anyone else from taking up that spot. He could smell Alistair from this close, and it was dragging up memories of soft hands and a sleepy head on his shoulder. The speech came to an end, winding up with the part everyone had been waiting for.</p>
<p class="p1">“And now everyone, please do enjoy the food stations dotted around, provided by the unparalleled Raven Sable, owner of the twice Michelin starred and highly recommended ‘Chow’ restaurant. Enjoy your evening!”</p>
<p class="p1">The background music started again, barely audible over the rise in sound from the crowd. Frances made her way off the stage, clearly looking at Alistair with intent. She made her way over to him with a genuinely pleased expression on her face, and Michael materialised next to them wearing her biggest smile. It didn't even look fake.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair! I was so pleased to read your latest novel. You've come a long way from that short story all those years ago.” She said. She had a soft American accent, and the kindest face Crowley thought he had ever seen. Almost.</p>
<p class="p1">“You… you remember that?” Alistair asked, clearly surprised.</p>
<p class="p1">“Of course! It was clear even then that you were an excellent story teller. I’m glad you found your voice and developed the story. Now, I am going to be cheeky, but I don’t think you can blame me.” She said, holding a hand out to an aide who suddenly appeared by her side, and handed a copy of Alistair’s book to her. “I make a point of getting signed copies of all my shortlisted authors.” She smiled, and held out the book to him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh! Oh, of course, absolutely. My pleasure!” He said, taking the book.</p>
<p class="p1">“Do you still have the pen that I gave you?” She asked. Alistair’s hands froze on their way into his jacket pocket. He fiddled with his pocket, before patting the others in turn.</p>
<p class="p1">“Pen? Right. Uh… long, thin, writing thing, yes. Uh... oh! Must have put it down somewhere. Ha… forget my own head next…”</p>
<p class="p1">Michael stepped forward smartly, with a pen held out for him. He took it, shooting her a grateful glance, and signed the book before handing it back to Frances with a smile.</p>
<p class="p1">“Thank you Alistair, it’s lovely to see you again. Please, enjoy the party.” She said, before giving him one last smile and turning to head off to track down the next shortlisted author who signature she wanted.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley melted back into the crowd and watched the fluff of white blond hair disappear off as all the booths on the edges of the room were opening their shutters or flinging back curtains to begin serving. Portions were tiny, designed to be finger food so that everyone could keep mingling, and very soon every booth had a queue forming. Before Crowley could spy Alistair a familiar voice startled him out of his search.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, well, well, Crowley. What a surprise seeing you here.” Drawled a voice behind him. He turned to face the owner.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hastur! It’s been a long time. Decided to finally go private have you?” He asked, taking in the lanky man that stood before him. Hastur wore an ill-fitting beige suit, to match his badly cut sandy hair. A look which he had cultivated and took great pride in. He looked nasty, he acted nasty, and nobody messed with him. “Where’s the other one?” Crowley asked, looking around him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Har har. No, we’re still with the Met. Works for me, but I’m sure Ligur would give his right arm to be getting the money you must make.” Hastur looked him up and down.</p>
<p class="p1">“Someone’s right arm, anyway.” Came a harsh, clipped voice just below Crowley’s right shoulder. He turned to see Ligur had crept up behind him. Ever the double act, these two unnerved Crowley. They took the messy jobs. There were rumours of things they’d done in the line of duty that would earn a civilian a long stay at Her Majesty’s leisure, if not an even longer one at Broadmoor. And what's worse, is people actually requested them.</p>
<p class="p1">Ligur came around him to stand next to Hastur. He was a lot shorter than Hastur and Crowley, but his stocky stature and intense stare more than made up for it. That, and the way he tended to bark out his words with unnecessary aggression. He had dark skin, dark hair and a dark suit, and he was an expert at lurking. He'd been known to lurk all night if a job required it.</p>
<p class="p1">“Just here to scout out the venue.” Hastur said, sweeping his gaze over the heads of the crowd. “We’ve got a job coming up for a House of Lords event, keeping an eye on Lord Beelzebub, so thought we’d come and survey the territory.” </p>
<p class="p1">“You babysitting celebrities these days?” Ligur snapped, looking down his nose at Crowley, which was pretty impressive for someone looking, ostensibly, up.</p>
<p class="p1">“Not normally. You know I only take the jobs that look interesting.” Crowley said. “Perks of private, I can choose who I work with and don’t get stuck with some stuffy Lord with no manners and a penchant for violence. But then I suppose that’s what you expect from someone involved in the film industry.”</p>
<p class="p1">Before Hastur could respond, his eyes slid over to a spot to Crowley’s right, and his face changed to a simpering look he usually reserved for important dignitaries.</p>
<p class="p1">“Crowley!” Came a voice that drove an icicle through where his spine had been and had him once again leaning hard on his sunglasses. “Won’t you introduce me to your friends?” Alistair was on the charm offensive it seemed, and when he chose to, he had quite a powerful arsenal. Crowley couldn’t stand the way Hastur and Ligur were looking at him, it made his insides coil and writhe. He shoved his hand in his pocket, digging his fingertips into his thigh in an effort to remain civil.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair this is Hastur, and Ligur. Old associates who never made it out of the Met.” He said, using the other hand to gesture to the two men. “Guys this is Alistair Fell. He’s one of the shortlisted authors, and who I’m here with tonight.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Ah, three Samurai. How delightful.” Alistair said, openly looking them over. Crowley could feel himself clenching his jaw.</p>
<p class="p1">“Where’s Uriel?” Crowley asked Alistair, looking around.</p>
<p class="p1">“Indisposed, that’s why I had to come and find you.” Alistair said to him coldly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Has Crowley been neglecting you?” Hastur asked, feigning shock. “Not a very good friend, he hasn’t even managed to get you a drink I see. Unforgivable. Come, let’s rectify that. Crowley knows you’re perfectly safe with us.” Hastur grinned at Crowley and gestured towards the bar inviting Alistair to follow.</p>
<p class="p1">“Friends? We’re not friends.” Alistair snapped out. “We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like him.” He followed Hastur without even a cursory glance back. Ligur grinned at Crowley, all teeth and no humour, before turning to follow after them.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley saw Uriel come out of the corner of the room where he knew the toilets to be, and head towards Alistair, so he left them to it. The fact Alistair had come to find him stung. If he'd been professional he'd have been with Alistair tonight, instead of hiding on the periphery. He needed space, and he knew the horror twins didn’t have time with Uriel on the way to do any harm to Alistair. He stalked off, aiming to get himself as far away as possible. Somewhere where he didn’t have to see Alistair flirting with them. Unforgivable was right. This wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t do this. He’d get through tonight and then leave tomorrow, find somewhere else he could go.</p>
<p class="p1">Hopefully before Alistair told him Hastur and Ligur would be taking over.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Devil's Ivy really does 'cry' out the extra water from its leaves. The plants were chosen as I think they're all a bit like Crowley in their own way. </p>
<p>'A stay at Her Majesty's Leisure' is slang for going to prison. Broadmoor is a secure psychiatric facility where they keep the criminals who tip over from 'cruel and unusual' to 'downright unhinged', and is fairly famous for its list of inmates (mostly serial killers, including the Yorkshire Ripper). People that live in the surrounding area are used to their regular, scheduled testing of the break-out siren.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. A Narrow Escape</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! We're half way through this now, and I'm still astounded by the wonderful reception it's had so thank you! We've got a way to go yet, and it's going to get worse before it gets better I'm afraid (I've tried to balance it out with some lighter stuff), but I promised you a happy ending and a happy ending you will get. We've just got to get the plot out of the way first...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Alistair let his two new friends lead him to one of the bars and order him champagne. He was determined to enjoy this night, and he was not going to let anyone get in the way of that. Particularly not anyone who wore head to toe black and moved as if they'd forgotten what joints were for, even if they did manage to look so damned alluring when they did so. Oh...</p>
<p class="p1">“Got to celebrate Alistair, big night for you!” The taller one on his right (<em>Hastur?</em>) said, handing him a glass of champagne full of little bubbles. Alistair realised that Ligur had positioned himself on the left so Alistair was caught between the two of them. Now that they were away from Crowley, Alistair felt a little remorseful at being quite so short with him but over the last week his despondency had turned to anger. Crowley got to carry on as normal, just dropping Alistair once he’d had his fill. No discussion, no chance for Alistair to weigh in, the decision made for him as if he were a child. It wasn’t fair. So here he was, being childish and accepting drinks from men that frankly made his skin crawl, just to... what? Punish him? He examined himself. What was he doing? Trying to make Crowley jealous? What was he hoping to achieve? He didn’t even know if Crowley would care that he went off with two other men past the fact that they were unlikely to be the threat he was facing. But he was rapidly realising that the two men were standing very close indeed, and he had no desire to be here. For two men who were supposed to be no risk to his person, they had rather failed to grasp the concept of personal space.</p>
<p class="p1">“A big night indeed. Are you gentlemen working tonight then? With one of the other shortlisted nominees perhaps?” He asked, hoping for a different answer to the one he was dreading.</p>
<p class="p1">“Nah.” Ligur said from his left. “We'd never abandon our job. Just a little research trip. Got to prepare for an upcoming event.” </p>
<p class="p1">“Yes, well, thank you for the drink gentlemen and I hope you get some useful information from tonight, but I rather think I should find my publisher Gabriel now. He must be here somewhere, and I'm already risking a ticking off for not 'checking in'.” He stepped back.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh we've already got what we came for.” Ligur said, sounding oddly menacing, or was that just Alistair’s rising anxiety? “Why don't you introduce us to Gabriel?” He said as they moved to follow him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh I hardly think he's worth your time, Gabriel's rather adept at looking out for himself.” Alistair tried, taking another step back.</p>
<p class="p1">“You hear that Ligur?” Hastur asked, turning to his partner. “Alistair here doesn’t think we’d be up for the challenge of looking after Gabriel.” He shifted his gaze back to Alistair who hadn’t missed it in the slightest.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh we’re very good at taking care of people.” Ligur responded, his unblinking stare starting to become really rather unnerving. “Very good indeed.”</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair’s fingers rose to his pin of their own accord, the one that would summon Crowley. Hastur’s eyes tracked the movement.</p>
<p class="p1">“There's no need for that, we're just talking.” He sneered, because of course he knew what the pin was. Alistair stepped away once more, trying to escape what felt increasingly like a trap when he felt his back bump upon one of the tall tables spread around the space. He was cornered. He could feel the panic rising as they followed him. This had been a huge mistake. He wanted them to leave him alone. He wanted to feel safe again. He wanted… he wanted Crowley.</p>
<p class="p1">Uriel appeared next to him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hey Alistair, these two not bothering you, are they?” She glared at them. Her voice low, but her stance unmistakably prepared for confrontation. After a long silent moment as all three appraised each other, she shifted again so she was standing partially in front of Alistair, looking down her nose at the two unwelcome presences.</p>
<p class="p1">Hastur swatted his companion lightly on the arm. “Come on Ligur. Let’s leave these nice people to their party.”</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair breathed a huge, shaky sigh of relief as they turned and left.</p>
<p class="p1">“Thank you, my dear.” He said to Uriel, as he felt the fear receding. “You got here just in time.” He’d been so close to pressing that button, so close to summoning Crowley, hoping that after the way he treated him, he’d actually respond. He put his champagne down on the table behind him, untouched.</p>
<p class="p1">“I suppose we’d best go and find Gabriel, due diligence and all that.” He sighed. Uriel placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, leaning into his side as they walked through the crowd.</p>
<p class="p1">“Why wasn’t Crowley with you? My offer still stands you know Alistair. Just one leg. Or an arm. Whatever you like. Come on, flattening that nose would leave a nice lasting reminder not to be such an arsehole.” She suggested quietly.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair thought about Crowley's nose. Thought about his face. Thought about those enthralling eyes that spent so much time hidden away. He sighed again. Why was he so weak? Was he really that lonely that he had to throw himself at the first man who sauntered his way? And yet, Crowley was unlike any man he had ever met before, and he couldn't help wanting more. They eventually found Gabriel explaining the finer points of typography to a hapless graphic designer, and his customary insensitive arrogance quickly replaced Alistair’s earlier insecurities with some well-worn, familiar ones.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p><hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">Crowley stormed off towards the back. He’d talked to the on-site security team prior to the event to make sure there was an exit route out to where the cars were parked, and now was as good a time as any to check it. Especially as it took him away from the main hall, and away from any chance of accidentally seeing Alistair flirting with the two most vile men he’d ever had the displeasure to work with. If he’d been trying to make Crowley jealous he’d succeeded, and there was another sin to add to his professional rap-sheet. Another reason why he should never get involved with a client’s personal life. Alistair simply wasn't his to be jealous over. He slammed open the doors that led off the main floor of the club. The corridor behind ran straight out to the loading bays at the back and the carpark beyond, with the store room off to one side of it and another door on the other side to the staff area. He'd picked this route as it was a fire exit. This corridor was supposed to be kept clear of obstructions at all times.</p>
<p class="p1">It wasn’t.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley glared at the crates all stamped with the 'Chow' logo, his hands shaking as his frustration boiled over into rage. The first crate hit the wall about half way up on the other side of the corridor with an almighty crash, the wood splintering as the top came loose, sending salad all over the floor. The second he merely lifted up and violently slammed back down in place, where it disintegrated in a rather satisfactory explosion of wood and several different kinds of lettuce. Before he got to the third, someone opened the outside door at the other end of the corridor. Someone tall and broad, with close shaven hair. Someone not in uniform, but in civvies - jeans and a dark, nondescript coat. The universal uniform of the average man everywhere, and one that Crowley knew was often used when someone wanted to move about unnoticed. Well he’d been noticed alright. He looked at the crates, at the mess of produce and wood, and at Crowley standing over it all, panting and snarling like a beast, his face contorted in fury.</p>
<p class="p1">The man’s face hardened and he strode towards Crowley with intent, hands already balling into fists, but Crowley was faster, catching up to him before the man had worked out what he was going to do. Crowley grabbed his swinging arm, twisting it up behind his back and shoving him roughly against the wall. Crowley's other hand held him by the back of his neck, pressing his face into the smooth white paintwork, as he brought his mouth close to the man’s ear.</p>
<p class="p1">“Identify yourself. Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?” Crowley snarled, low and menacing. He got no response other than a pointless struggle as the man's other arm flailed uselessly at him. “I won’t ask you again sunshine. Why are you here? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t break every bone in your body, starting with this arm.” Crowley twisted the arm a bit more in his grasp to emphasise his point. It was taking immense effort not to just slam the man’s head into the wall repeatedly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck you.” The man spat out, the words mangled as his mouth was squashed into the plaster.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley started twisting the arm again, and the man’s face contorted with pain. Just as he cried out the kitchen door opened behind them.</p>
<p class="p1">“Dave?! Oi! What’s going on here?”</p>
<p class="p1">Suddenly Crowley was being roughly pulled back by a pair of very strong arms. He spun around, fist already swinging, to see the mass of bulging muscles that was head of security. He just about managed to turn his swing into a flail and backed away a couple of steps, glowering at them both from behind his sunglasses. The head of security turned to the man who was rubbing his arm.</p>
<p class="p1">“Dave, where the fuck have you been? You should have been on shift an hour ago! Reggie’s going have your head for this. Get changed and get in there pronto. We’ll talk about <em>this</em> later.” He yelled, before turning to Crowley.</p>
<p class="p1">“What was all that about? Why are you going around terrorising my bar staff?” He demanded as Dave slunk off through the door on the other side of the hall, glaring at Crowley through narrowed eyes and rubbing his jaw.</p>
<p class="p1">“Surprise inspection. This hallway is a fire exit, you're supposed to keep it clear, like we discussed. Now get this mess cleared up.” He hissed, waving an arm at the destruction before turning and stalking back into the club. He was still angry, but his anger had turned inward. He was angry at himself for losing control like that, angry and ashamed. He was better than that. Professional. But Alistair had got under his skin and he had let him in and now he was unravelling. The one thing he could normally count on was his self control in stressful situations, and it seemed his well-honed skill had left him overnight. Over <em>that </em>night. He felt the dark twist of regret and disgust in his core. How was he supposed to be effective at his job like this?</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley made his way over to the nearest bar. It was quieter back here, away from the food. He asked for something fiery but non alcoholic (he was technically on duty, after all), and fortunately the barmaid just studied him for a moment, with his scowl and his drumming fingers, before disappearing towards the other end of the bar. She returned shortly afterwards with something in a tall glass that burned his throat just the way he wanted, but the barmaid assured him had never seen ethanol or any of its more toxic cousins. She handed him his drink along with a napkin, looking at his hand. He followed her gaze and was surprised to find he was bleeding from a cut to his middle finger where the crates had evidently fought back. He licked the wound before winding the napkin around it, applying gentle pressure to stem the flow. </p>
<p class="p1">His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, against his chest. It was R.P. checking in. He could really use some good news right now.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hey R.P. Yeah, I know it's noisy. Tell me you’ve got something? Full name, address, hell, I’ll take a shoe size. No? Me neither. Yeah I'll let you know if I get anything else, keep digging R.P. Cheers.” He hung up glumly and slid the phone back in his pocket.</p>
<p class="p1">Whitney Houston was singing something about love saving the day and Crowley had no time for that sort of sentiment. Feelings just made things complicated as far as he was concerned. <em>Exhibit A, </em>he thought to himself. He was dimly aware of the seat next to him becoming occupied, and the occupant turning to face him.</p>
<p class="p1">“I noticed you from across the room.” Purred a silky female voice. “You look like a man who could do with letting off some steam…” And the suggestion was valid, but unfortunately for her, Crowley’s idea of ‘letting off steam’ was not what she so clearly had in mind.</p>
<p class="p1">“I suggest you head back across the room then, if you know what’s good for you.” He snapped, in no mood for silly games tonight. There was a huff, and then whoever had sat down got up and left, leaving him to scowl over his drink for a few moments, before the seat was once again occupied. Some people just couldn’t take a hint. He sighed, putting his glass down, and tried to pull himself together enough for the conversation he was expecting. Snarling as he turned, he was ready to fend off whatever was thrown at him but quickly dropped his expression when he saw Pepper. Part of him was relieved that it wasn’t another person trying to get into his trousers, but the other part of him baulked at the idea of Pepper seeing him in this state. She seemed to think so highly of him, and he couldn’t help feeling like he’d just let her down as well. She spun her barstool around once, then came to a stop facing him, a large, bulbous glass of something fruity with an umbrella and two paper straws in her hand. It smelled of strawberries. </p>
<p class="p1">“You’re moping.” She said. It was a statement, not a question.</p>
<p class="p1">“‘M not moping.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Wallowing then. What have you done to your finger?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Piss off Pepper.” He said, inspecting his cut as he braced himself for the inevitable outburst. He deserved it. He was even snapping at Pepper now and she hadn’t done anything to earn that. He deserved to be shouted at, welcomed it even.</p>
<p class="p1">“Nope. Anathema has been good for nothing since Newt arrived, and Tracy is giggling and batting her eyelashes at some old codger who keeps calling her a ‘jezebel’. Two more deluded victims of the patriarchy. Michael is schmoozing, and to cap it all off, I’ve got some greasy bloke called ‘Johnson’ or something who keeps trying to chat me up.” She mimed retching.</p>
<p class="p1">Not what Crowley was expecting, but perhaps a chance at redemption… "Oh?"</p>
<p class="p1">"Yeah. About six foot, badly fitting blue suit, and presently about eight metres off your starboard stern and closing." She said into her drink, not looking up. </p>
<p class="p1">Crowley idly turned his head, spotting him instantly as his gaze swept around. "Pretty impressive observation skills there. You sure you aren't the spy?" He asked. </p>
<p class="p1">"Nah, just female. Girls learn pretty young that it pays to be aware of your surroundings." She said, taking a long drink. "I was hoping you’d put him off with your general air of, well…” She waved a hand to indicated all of him. “But men like him have a habit of not taking the hint. If he comes over here I swear I am going to find myself temporarily out of tact.” She grumbled, all mirth gone from her voice.</p>
<p class="p1">“Wasn’t aware you had any to start with.” Crowley teased. “What are you going to do? Stab him with your mini umbrella? That'd be worth seeing.” He turned away, ignoring her completely in favour of checking his finger again. The wound had dried out so he carefully folded the napkin and put it in his pocket. </p>
<p class="p1">“You arsehole.” Pepper hissed at him, plucking the tiny paper umbrella from her glass.</p>
<p class="p1">“Three… Two… One…” He said quietly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hey there gorgeous, so this is where you slunk off to!” Greasy. Check.</p>
<p class="p1">“Whatever you’re going to say, the answer is no.” Pepper said firmly without looking at him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, c’mon sweetheart, you haven’t even heard what I’m going to suggest yet!” He complained, throwing his arms open wide.</p>
<p class="p1">“Don’t need to. The answer will be no.” Pepper said, and she sounded very bored.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley turned his head to look at Greasy Johnson, who looked back at him for support, one man to another, yeh?</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley looked him up and down with disdain and turned back to his drink.</p>
<p class="p1">“C'mon darlin', let me just-” He started, but Crowley had had enough. His already barely contained anger was flaring up again and he slammed his glass down on the bar, stood up and was right in Greasy Johnson’s face in one smooth movement. To his credit the boy barely blinked.</p>
<p class="p1">“The lady said no.” Crowley told him, his voice dangerously calm and even.</p>
<p class="p1">“What’s it to you? You her sugar daddy or something?”</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley’s voice took on a lightness that smarter men knew meant it was time to walk away. “Me? No. I’m just a bodyguard. Just tasked with protection, which I am permitted to achieve by <em>any</em> means necessary.” Yeah, so technically he was Alistair's bodyguard, but Greasy Johnson didn't need to know that... </p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah? What you gonna do? Pull out a knife and stab me or something?” Greasy Johnson puffed out his chest.</p>
<p class="p1">“A knife?” Crowley chuckled darkly. “Oh no sunshine. There are at least six ways I could incapacitate you right now without needing to resort to a blade, and I’ve had a pretty bad week, so go on. Give me a reason. Just one.” Crowley stepped back and sat back down on his bar stool, opening the space up for Greasy Johnson to make his move. There would undoubtedly be CCTV and it had to show this twat being the aggressor. Crowley adopted a deliberately casual pose, both hands in full view, but didn’t take his attention off of the pathetic excuse for a man in front of him.</p>
<p class="p1">“I tell you what fella, you’re young. You’re not really worth the paperwork it would take to teach you this lesson the hard way, so I’ll make you a deal. You walk away now, learn to listen when somebody says ‘no’, and we’ll say no more about it eh? Maybe take up a hobby. Tropical fish or something.”</p>
<p class="p1">“And if I don’t?” Greasy Johnson squared his shoulders. Crowley took off his sunglasses with a heavy sigh and looked at him with bare eyes. Tired eyes, that were in no way impressed with the display he was being subjected to. Angry eyes that were fed up of boys like this giving men a bad name.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, then it will be a long time before you <em>can</em> walk again.” He said matter of factly. The boy looked into Crowley’s eyes and saw his future, and decided fish didn’t sound so bad after all. Who knows? Maybe you could win prizes for them or something. With a parting sneer at Pepper, he turned away and disappeared back into the crowd.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley replaced his sunglasses, picked up his glass and looked over at Pepper. She looked smaller than he’d ever seen her before. Deflated.</p>
<p class="p1">“You ok?” He asked softly. She took a deep breath, replaced her usual determined expression and looked up.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah. I hate that I had to drag you into it, but thank you..” Crowley huffed into his drink. “…Daddy.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Wha? No! No, no, no!” But they were both grinning now, and Crowley was certainly feeling much calmer. He still felt sick thinking of Alistair with the Dukes of Peril, but the anger had drained away.</p>
<p class="p1">“‘Sides, you’d kick his arse any day of the week. Little shits like that are all mouth and no trouser.” Crowley nodded at her. “I could even show you how to do it so it didn’t leave any marks. Not ones he’d want to show anyone, anyway…” Pepper laughed at that.</p>
<p class="p1">“Pfff, jerks like that I can take down on the first day of my period. The trouble is there’s always another one waiting right behind, and I’d rather just enjoy my evening frankly, so I guess I’m stuck with you Mr. Brightside, and you are most definitely moping. It’s pathetic. You should just apologise to Alistair and then the two of you can go off together. Ride off into the sunset, or whatever the fuck it is blokes do. Ride off into the bedroom for all I care, just cut the crap.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Together? Did he really sound like he wants anything to do with me right now Pepper?” Crowley said, staring at his drink again.</p>
<p class="p1">“So he was hurt and lashed out a bit. So what? You’re both grown ups, not that anyone would believe it the way you two dance around each other. You can sort this out. Since you arrived, I’ve never seen Alistair so alive and happy. You’re good for him, and I think he’s good for you too. So what’s the problem?” She asked, unreasonably reasonable. Crowley desperately wished it were that simple.</p>
<p class="p1">“The problem Pepper is that there is still a threat to his life, that I’m supposed to be catching. But instead I let it get messy and now I’m over here, not doing my job. The stress is making me so ill that my chest is behaving like a toddler on a trampoline every time I get near him. It won’t work. I’ll get him back home, but tomorrow, I’m gone. For all your safety.”</p>
<p class="p1">Pepper looked at him thoughtfully. “How many times have you been in love, Crowley?” She asked gently, twirling the tiny brolly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Why do you lot keep asking me that? Do I look like I’m the kind of person someone would stick around long enough to fall in love with?”</p>
<p class="p1">“That’s not what I asked. Have you ever actually loved someone?” She pushed again.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley sighed. “Nah. Don't think I can. There’s no time for relationships in this job. Wouldn't even know where to start.” </p>
<p class="p1">“Oh you poor sod.” She said kindly. “Still, I’m stuck with you, so at least try and cheer up and entertain me. Tell me more spy stories.” She spun her barstool so she was leaning with her back against the bar, elbows spread wide where they rested on it and legs crossed, scowling at the crowd. Crowley begrudgingly followed her with distinctly less poise as he let his legs sprawl apart, drink cradled in his lap. </p>
<p class="p1">“Manspreader.” Pepper scolded.</p>
<p class="p1">“Would you prefer I sat looking like a predatory uterus?” He returned, eyeing her over his sunglasses. She snorted.</p>
<p class="p1">“Touché.”</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley thought for a moment. '<em>Spy' stories...</em></p>
<p class="p1">“‘M banned from Ireland.” He admitted quickly from behind his glass as he took another sip of his drink.</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re what?” Pepper asked, not sure she’d heard him right. Crowley rolled his head and looked at her.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m banned from Ireland OK? Bit of a misunderstanding with one of their officials when they were over here. Got myself on the persona non grata list. If I try and go I’ll get arrested at point of entry and sent straight back out.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re ridiculous.” Pepper told him, barely holding in the laughter. “Totally ridiculous.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, but you won’t be stuck with me for long.” Crowley said into his drink, missing the way the laughter died off.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley looked back to the room, deciding that he should at least put a little effort into doing his job tonight and work out where Alistair, Hastur and Ligur had got to. He spotted the tell-tale platinum fluff, like raw cotton, floating in the crowd, and saw he was talking to Gabriel. No… being talked <em>at</em> by Gabriel. He was relieved to see that Uriel was by his side, and overjoyed to find that the horror twins were nowhere to be seen.</p>
<p class="p1">“Come on.” He said to Pepper, a smirk beginning to form on his face. “Looks like Alistair could do with rescuing from Gabriel.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p><hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">The taxi ride home was marginally less chilly. Alistair hadn’t been pleased with the way Crowley had Gabriel talking himself round in knots, and contradicting himself, or the way Pepper had been not quite able to fully contain her mirth at it. He’d been even less pleased when he involuntarily snorted out a laugh at Crowley murmuring to him that Gabriel’s ‘great plan’ was a load of 'pustulant, mangled bollocks'. He’d given Crowley a stern look for that, but there was a definite softening in the stony glare. Once they were all inside Alistair strode off for the kitchen, apparently not fully sated by the food on offer, and Anathema and Tracy went with him, kicking off heels with a groan while the others went off to bed. Pepper gave Crowley a lazy punch to the shoulder on the way past, and a meaningful look which he returned with an exasperated one, before trailing slowly towards the kitchen, avoiding the conversation he knew he needed to have. Just because Alistair was talking to him again didn’t mean everything was fixed. He still couldn’t do his job, not with the way all his finely tuned skills flew out the window in the face of that ethereal smile.</p>
<p class="p1">Tracy noticed him first.</p>
<p class="p1">“Cup of tea, love?” She asked. Alistair looked up to see who she was talking to, and very quickly looked back down again. Crowley was frowning, and no doubt he was about to be told off for his little stunt with Hastur and Ligur. He kept his eyes resolutely on his plate.</p>
<p class="p1">“No, thank you Tracy. This won’t take long.” Crowley leant against the worktop opposite Alistair, eyebrows pinched together as he tried to work out what to say, arms and ankles crossed. He watched Alistair where he sat at the island with a plate holding a hastily made peanut butter sandwich. He’d been so keen he hadn’t even removed his coat. Anathema and Tracy shared a glance, and suddenly they both needed to inspect something in the far corner of the kitchen. For a moment the only sound was the rustle of silk as Anathema swished past behind Alistair, followed by hushed whispers. Crowley took a moment to just look at Alistair. To commit the divine curls to memory, to remember the set of his shoulders, the shape of his neck, the surety of his broad hands, the texture of his clothes. He examined Alistair's face from behind his sunglasses, taking in the furrowing of his eyebrows, the determined set of his mouth, even the little muscle that popped out on his jaw as he chewed. He was a perfect enigma of strength borne of softness, a superlative hidden in humility, he was the only person Crowley had ever met who could bulldoze you with genuine kindness. And yet, he was just enough of a bastard to be worth liking. But there was the problem. Crowley liked him a bit too much, and he had stepped over that line that he vowed he would never cross, and the only option left for him was to walk away for Alistair’s safety and his own sanity.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair, I’m sorry.” He said at last. The whispering stopped. “I can’t do my job effectively any more. Tomorrow, I will organise a replacement, and then I’m packing my bags and leaving.” Alistair hadn’t looked up, but his hand had stilled halfway to his mouth. He didn’t move.</p>
<p class="p1">“Where will you go?” He asked quietly.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley shrugged. “It’s a big universe.” <em>As far away from this big puddle of burning goo as possible. </em>“I’m sorry I failed you.” He said, before unfurling his body, putting his hands in his pockets, and leaving the kitchen with his head down. Alistair still didn’t move. The last thing Crowley heard was swishing silk, and Tracy’s voice.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh love, it’ll be ok.” She said. And Crowley knew it would. He’d find someone else to watch over his Ange- Alistair. Someone who wouldn’t get involved. Someone competent and preferably old or married. Maybe even female, they seemed to be doing a better job than he was. Someone who could give Alistair the protection he deserved. He would sleep tonight, and make all the necessary calls in the morning.</p>
<p class="p1">The house was dark and quiet at this time of night, despite the usual nocturnal London noises outside. It creaked the way that all houses of this age did, the beams and joists relaxing at the end of the day, pipes contracting back down and shrinking in their brackets with a ‘ping’. At times it could almost sound like someone walking around, some ghostly figure still inhabiting the space, the building remembering their steps.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley sat down on the little sofa in his room, throwing the contents of his pockets on the table and taking off his sunglasses. He rubbed his eyes and tried to think who he could call tomorrow. Who could take over? Who did he trust? Was there anybody in his extensive list of contacts that he would trust with hi- the Ange- Alistair’s life? He looked over at his phone as if it could jog his memory.</p>
<p class="p1">Instead it went utterly berserk. Alarms sounded and lights flashed as it nearly vibrated itself off the table, and Crowley realised with mounting horror that it was Alistair’s alarm. Alistair had pressed his panic button. Alistair was in trouble, upstairs, where Crowley had just left him. Without a second thought, he raced out of the room and up the stairs three at a time, hating himself for having just walked away. For not being there. Again. </p>
<p class="p1">He hoped he wasn’t too late.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley was well trained, Crowley knew not to burst blindly into a dangerous situation, Crowley knew he needed to approach carefully, assess the danger, use his head. But Crowley remembered none of this right now as he could only think of getting to Alistair as fast as humanly possible.</p>
<p class="p1">He burst back into the kitchen, eyes wild, teeth bared, body tensed and ready for a fight, coming to a sliding halt half way across the room. Tracy shrieked and spilled her tea.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley was going to kick the living shit out of whoever was threatening Alistair, he was going to tear them limb from limb, he was going use all those little tools he kept hidden away on his person one by one, he was… confused. Alistair was still sat at the island where he had left him. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the kitchen who shouldn’t be there, and the doors and windows were shut and intact so nobody could have got in or escaped. He half dropped his arms, face not quite sure whether to put the teeth away or not. Perhaps it was a mistake, maybe he knocked the button? Then he noticed Alistair’s ashen face, his wide, frightened eyes, his trembling hand that was shaking the paper he held, the other one still holding his panic button.</p>
<p class="p1">Hang on, the paper,<em> that’s new</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">It was another letter. Another hysterical, hateful barrage of mixed typeface, all cut out of newspapers and magazines.</p>
<p class="p1">“Where did that come from?” Crowley snarled.</p>
<p class="p1">“It was in his inside coat pocket.” Anathema told him, her voice wavering. "He was there..."</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair finally turned to him, eyes wide with fright.</p>
<p class="p1">“You can’t leave Crowley.” He said.</p>
<p class="p1">“I need you.” He said.</p>
<p class="p1">“Please…”</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley looked at him, realising too late that he’d left his sunglasses downstairs in his haste. Alistair looked terrified. Crowley couldn’t stand it. He wanted to wrap himself around him, shielding him from the world and all its evils. How had he ever thought he could possibly leave?</p>
<p class="p1">“Then leave with me. Let’s go off together. We can disappear.” Crowley said.</p>
<p class="p1">“Together? On…on a boat or something?” Alistair asked.</p>
<p class="p1">“A boat? Heavens no.” Crowley said. “Don’t do boats. Spent four months on one a while back with an owner who liked pets. It was a floating zoo. Never again.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Then what? This was in my <em>pocket </em>Crowley - I’ll do anything.” Alistair said, and Crowley felt his stupid heart skip a beat. He racked his brain for somewhere he could take them. Then he had an idea. It was a dangerous idea, but all his best ones usually were, and hey, it couldn’t make it any worse, right?</p>
<p class="p1">“I have a place. A cottage down south, on the Downs. I don’t go there much. We can hide there until we catch this arsehole. But it would be only you, safer all round if everyone else stays here.” Crowley said. “We’ll leave in the morning.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh Crowley, you've gone from 'you can stay at my place, if you like' to 'run away with me' very quickly.</p>
<p>I say it once, I say it every time. I fucking love Pepper. She is drinking a strawberry daiquiri, because she is a rum drinker. Crowley drinks whiskey when he allows himself to, Alistair drinks gin. Tracey drinks anything, especially vodka. Anathema is partial to Tequila and can drink you under the table. Michael will have dry sherry on the rare occasion and Uriel doesn't drink at all. Gabriel only drinks champagne or top shelf spirits, the more obscure the better (he doesn't notice when he gets cheaper stuff). He only drinks in public, but keeps decanters at home for the look of it. Anyway... I digress.  </p>
<p>Crowley doesn't think he's capable of love.<br/>So my personal theory here is that Crowley literally doesn't know what love looks or feels like. He was rejected by his birth parents. He had a few years of love from Lilith, but she died when he was eleven. He spent his teenage years (when he should be learning about romantic love) with a 'father' who completely lost the plot in the worst possible way. Add to that a school full of teachers that wrote him off, and probably not a lot of friends if he was that disruptive (and the chances of him revealing he was gay at school in early 80's England when he was already an outcast would be slim, particularly as he grew up in a rather conservative area). Then he's chucked straight into the RAF (and forces are so well known for their loving and accepting approach...), then the SAS (even more love there right?) and finally spends his days watching other people who probably aren't very nice or they wouldn't have people out to harm them (or have got into their position of power) in the first place. So he had absolutely no idea that what he is feeling is love, and no idea what to do with it. But that's just my theory.</p>
<p>Ugh, I so nearly left this chapter at 'He hoped he wasn't too late' but luckily for you (and believe me I'm still mourning the killer cliffhanger that never was) I had to balance out the word count across the chapters a bit so here we are. Plus it would have been a bit of an anticlimax I think.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. South to the Downs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Little bit of a reprieve in this chapter. I've been hit by the imposter syndrome hammer this week, and have been rereading your lovely comments which never fail to make me smile. No matter what I think of my own writing, it's undeniably lovely to see it making people happy, so thank you for all the love! 🥰</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Crowley rose promptly the next morning and found everyone at breakfast. Tracy and Anathema were already in the kitchen telling Uriel, Michael and Pepper about the new letter when he came in. Pepper turned to him, her anger evident on her face.</p>
<p class="p1">“Get this piece of sanctimonious shit Crowley. And when you do, kick him in the balls for me.” </p>
<p class="p1">"Can't be sure this is a man yet, but they will definitely get what's coming to them." Crowley said darkly. </p>
<p class="p1">“I’m coming with you.” Uriel said.</p>
<p class="p1">“Nope. Need you here Uriel. I need you to watch over the house in case they try something. Nobody can know where we've gone.” She scowled, but didn’t argue.</p>
<p class="p1">"Gabriel won't be happy about being kept in the dark." Michael said.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley shrugged. "Don't care. Tell him Alistair is in hiding, but don't tell him where. Would love to see the look on his face. See if you can get a picture."</p>
<p class="p1">After breakfast, Crowley went to pack, placing his bag in the car ready to go, before making two phone calls in the garden while he waited for Alistair to emerge. After a while Tracy went up to look for him.</p>
<p class="p1">“He’ll be down in a tic, love. Just fretting over what to bring. Incidentally, I don’t wish to alarm you, but there appear to be some people gathering by the gate. Reporters by the looks of them. What do you want to do?” She asked Crowley.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck. Thanks Tracy.” He said, before heading back to the kitchen.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oi Pepper, change of plans. You’re driving. There’s press outside and we need this exit to look as normal as possible.” He said. “Go get whatever it is you need for a few days in the country.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Cool! Not to worry Crowley, my mum lives down that way and I can always drop in on her. Gimme fifteen minutes.” She jumped down from her stool and bounded off to the stairs. True to her word, fifteen minutes later she was back, but Alistair was still nowhere to be seen. After pacing in the hallway for a few more minutes, Crowley went up.</p>
<p class="p1">He knocked on the door, heart pounding for some stupid reason. He’d been everywhere in this house, including into Alistair’s bedroom when they were setting up the security, so why did it feel so intrusive now?</p>
<p class="p1">When he got no answer he pushed the door open very slightly, and called through the gap.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair? Are you ok in there?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh! P-perfectly, yes. Uh, tip-top. Absolutely tickety-boo.” Came a frazzled reply.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley made an executive decision, and opened the door.</p>
<p class="p1">“Come on, what’s up?” He asked kindly as he walked in. On the bed were two bags, tops open as Alistair was fretting between them, the wardrobe, and the bookshelf. Next to them was a pile of books, none of which looked like they were printed this century. Crowley tried to ignore the flash of dark blue silk in the bag full of clothes.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh I just can't decide what to bring! I’ll be away from home for I don’t know how long, I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t know what I need. How many books should I bring, for example?” Alistair paced continuously, wringing his hands.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair, we are not going far, and if there’s anything you need while we’re down there, we can sort it. The house will be fine, your books will be fine. Uriel is staying to look after it all, and I can't see anyone getting past Tracy with the way she handles that frying pan. It’s just a few days out in the country. Think of it as a long weekend away, except you can’t bring your laptop. Or your phone.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, well when you put it that way…” Alistair looked at him with such gratitude that Crowley suddenly found himself needing to cough.</p>
<p class="p1">“Right, well, just put some stuff in a bag and let’s get out of here yeah? You don’t need much, we won’t be going out.”</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair’s expression changed again and Crowley felt the need to examine his hands, the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but looking at that face, because that face was dangerous. He'd seen that face before and it had caused no end of mess.</p>
<p class="p1">“Right. OK then.” Alistair said as he zipped up the bag full of clothes, picked it up and looked at Crowley with a determined expression.</p>
<p class="p1">“Chop chop.” And he strode off down the stairs and to the garage. When they got to the car, Alistair was surprised to see Pepper.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair I haven’t mentioned it yet, but there are press waiting outside. They're likely to want to take pictures, so Pepper is going to drive us to maintain normalcy. I wasn’t planning on stopping to talk to them, unless you want to? Michael's pretty keen I think.”</p>
<p class="p1">The look of horror that flashed over Alistair’s face was enough of an answer.</p>
<p class="p1">“Thought not.” Crowley smirked. He took the bag and put it in the boot as Alistair climbed into the back seat, then paused for a moment.</p>
<p class="p1">“Be right back, just going to grab one last thing.” Crowley said before striding off. He reappeared shortly after with one more small bag that got put in boot with the others, then slid into the seat next to Alistair. Crowley kept his gaze out of the window, his hands straying no further than his knee.</p>
<p class="p1">With Michael outside distracting the press at the pedestrian gate they were able to slip out without too much trouble. The sound of the engine alerted the reporters, but by the time they reacted Pepper had put her extra training to good use and they were gone.</p>
<p class="p1">The drive out of the city was fairly quiet. London traffic was ubiquitous but eventually they found themselves cruising towards the M23. Somewhere just north of Croydon Pepper glanced back and realised Alistair had nodded off against his window.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley was still staring out of his window at the houses and people of London drifting past. All these everyday people going about normal lives, but somewhere out there there was an arsehole who had decided that what made them feel better about themselves was targeting a kind, innocent man. Well Crowley wouldn’t stand for that. He was changing the playing field, swapping the advantage by moving the game to home (ha!) turf.</p>
<p class="p1">All of a sudden the car lurched round a bend, dislodging the sleeping Alistair and causing him to slump in the other direction with a faint grumble. Right onto Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley managed to keep his body still despite the shock. He looked at Pepper in the rear-view mirror, her smirk confirming his suspicions. Holding his breath and moving slowly as if he were handling an explosive device, he very gently shifted Alistair back over. Alistair only grumbled slightly, but resettled back against the window.</p>
<p class="p1">A few minutes later and the car lurched again. Crowley frowned at Pepper and repeated his gentle repositioning, eliciting a vague whine of protest from Alistair that very nearly stopped his heart completely.</p>
<p class="p1">Another few minutes and another lurch. He sighed quietly and put his hands up again.</p>
<p class="p1">“Why bother? I’m only going to keep doing it. You're warmer than the window so let him sleep. He’s not been getting a lot of that lately.” Pepper said quietly.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley silently scowled at her in the mirror, but accepted defeat and turned back to the window.</p>
<p class="p1">“Good boy.” She teased. Crowley stuck his middle finger up at her, but there was a small smile hiding behind it. </p>
<p class="p1">Pepper chuckled to herself, and drove on. It was a while before she would need to ask Crowley for directions so she left him in peace. They had the nine gruelling miles of average speed zone to sit through first, no mean feat in a car with an antiquated clutch and no power steering, and that was after getting through the traffic joining from the M25. Pepper had a very specific hatred for the M25 and its designers. It was a horrible great beast of road, and every time she drove on it she felt like a little piece of her soul had gone to Hell.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley was in turmoil. On one hand he knew Alistair would be pretty embarrassed when he woke up, but part of him (OK, most of him) was really enjoying the warmth of Alistair pressed up against him, the rhythmic sound of his breathing so close it was a while before he realised he had been matching him breath for breath. It was calming having his head resting there on his bony shoulder, even if he did have to sit a bit awkwardly to give him a less bumpy pillow. After half an hour or so he realised he’d been absentmindedly brushing his cheek against his soft, fluffy curls. So yes, he was conflicted. He desperately wanted this, this easy intimacy, but he was supposed to be professional. Not to mention he’d been the one to put a stop to… whatever it was they were getting into. Pepper had forced this on him, he rationalised. He couldn’t be blamed for something he had no control over, right? Internal battle at a wary truce, he allowed himself to just enjoy the feeling of Alistair snuggled up against him, wishing he could put his arm around him to hold him properly.</p>
<p class="p1">After a while Pepper startled him out of his thoughts with a quiet question.</p>
<p class="p1">“So, where are we actually going?” She asked.</p>
<p class="p1">“Right, yes, Fulking. Head for Fulking. Come off at the junction for Hurstpierpoint, and I'll direct you from there.” He looked out of the windscreen at the road ahead to judge where they were. “You’ve got a little way to go yet.”</p>
<p class="p1">“…What did you say the name of the town was?” Pepper asked carefully, holding back a smirk.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fulking. With an ‘L’ you filthy animal. And it’s a tiny village. The house is on the outskirts.” He said with a practiced tone.</p>
<p class="p1">“Right.” Pepper rolled her eyes. “My mum is in Brighton so I won’t be too far then.”</p>
<p class="p1">Eventually they came to a dirt track by the sign for the village. By some miracle the Bentley successfully navigated the heavily rutted surface to the house at the end, coming to a stop next to a small, black Mini. Pepper marked the point on the map on her phone, calling it something completely random at Crowley’s insistence. She settled on ‘Mesopotamia’ just because she liked the sound. As the car came to a stop and Pepper turned off the engine, Alistair stirred with a little snort before he dragged a hand up to rub his face, still leaning on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley froze. He tried looking to Pepper for help, pleading with her through scrunched up eyebrows. She helpfully made kissing faces at him, before opening the door and getting out to stretch her legs. It was a long drive in the Bentley. The London to Brighton Classic Car Run was usually held in the warmer month of May for good reason, but at least it had been dry. She reached in and pulled the seat forward so Crowley could at least stretch out his long legs.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair took a deep breath in through his nose as he wriggled his body into a more wakeful state and Crowley had to bite his finger. It was sickeningly adorable watching Alistair wake up, and only the chilling terror at how he would react when he realised where he’d been sleeping was stopping Crowley from melting at the sight. Not to mention what the squirming against him was doing to... other parts. Alistair sighed the lungful of air back out, then snuggled closer, humming contentedly, before suddenly going very still.</p>
<p class="p1">He sat up rather sharply, looking at Crowley in horror. Crowley flashed him a brief smile to hide the fact that internally he was FREAKING OUT, before quickly unfolding himself from the car and briskly walking off the cramp from sitting so still for so long. Not running away at all, just walking up to the door of the house to knock. Alistair heard a dog barking, then the door was answered, and Alistair realised he’d been sat in the car for too long and it was starting to appear rude. He slowly made his way out, giving Crowley a sheepish look as he reached them.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hey Eric, this is Alistair and Pepper. Alistair and Pepper, Eric. Oh, and Dog.” Crowley said, waving his hands lazily between them all as a small, wiry, black and white terrier came bounding out of the door and yapped madly at Crowley’s heels.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yes, yes, alright Dog, hello, hello! Blimey Eric what’s gotten into the little Hellhound?!” Crowley laughed, leaning down to ruffle Dog's ears.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair looked at the man who'd just been introduced as ‘Eric’. He was young, not particularly tall, and he shared Crowley’s affinity for dark textures and drama when it came to clothing. A black hooded jumper, the hood of which had long black bunny ears dangling from it for some reason, sat above dark, ripped jeans, with a midnight blue, ragged scarf draped around his shoulders. He had smooth skin the colour of toffee, and startlingly long eyelashes Alistair realised. He was mortified to find himself feeling no small measure of animosity towards this rather pretty young man that Crowley had kept hidden away in a house in the country. While he was not above a spot of 'Bunburying', the idea of Crowley having a Cecily hidden away was somewhat surprising. Alistair felt rather ashamed at just how quickly he had leapt to such a degree of jealousy over a man who made it clear he wanted nothing more than a working relationship with him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Dog's just pleased to see you Uncle.” Eric laughed. Pepper and Alistair both looked at Crowley, but Alistair, having just woken up, was slower to stop his mouth.</p>
<p class="p1">“‘Uncle?!’” He said, not sure whether to be relieved or not.</p>
<p class="p1">“Huh? Oh, yeah. Eric and I were fostered together for a bit when he was little. The younger kids used to come and go, and they called me ‘uncle’. Eric ended up nearby and we kept in touch. He needed a place to stay, and I needed someone to look after Dog and the house.” Crowley shrugged. “Now can we please get inside? I'm freezing my nuts off out here.”</p>
<p class="p1">Relieved, and feeling a trifle guilty about his assumption, Alistair and Pepper followed Eric into the house and he gave them a quick tour of the downstairs while Crowley emptied the car.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair nodded with satisfaction at the classic 1930’s layout of the house. Front door to the right of the façade, opening onto a hallway with the stairs running up the right hand wall. The room to the front of the house was the lounge, with a large bay window that had a seat fitted into it and two small sofas along with a fireplace which had been opened up and a log burner installed, making the room feel very cosy. Further along the hallway, was the dining room with an open fireplace this time. It housed a large dining table, with chunky, dark wooden legs sticking out from under a white cotton tablecloth, and six dark wood chairs with striped fabric seats. At the end of the hall was a small, pine fronted kitchen with a cream Aga slotted into the old chimney, and the back door. Wooden floorboards ran throughout, apart from the terracotta tiles in the kitchen, and it was awash with floral soft furnishings that looked straight out of a Laura Ashley showroom. The house was quaint and cosy, and entirely unlike Crowley and his severe Mayfair flat.</p>
<p class="p1">“So. Welcome to Jasmine Cottage. It stretches the definition of ‘cottage’ slightly, but it’s too much hassle to change it. Now we're in, anyone want a cup of tea?” Eric asked, turning to the kettle as they all stood in the little kitchen.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh my, yes please.” Alistair responded. “A cup of tea and a sit down with a good book would- Oh no!” Alistair looked distraught, his hands flying up to his mouth. “The books! I forgot all about the books! I didn’t pack any of them! Oh, what am I going to read now?” He lamented, wringing his hands together.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley stepped back out into the hall, then returned with a familiar bag, and Alistair felt the jolt as Crowley’s finger brushed his as he handed it over. The bag was rather heavy. Inside it were all the books that he’d had laying out on the bed.</p>
<p class="p1">“You… you went back for them?” Alistair asked, staring at Crowley, his voice barely audible.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah. Figured you’d want something from home to read, something familiar.” The way Alistair was looking at him was making Crowley’s chest play up again, and possibly his eyes because nobody could make themselves go soft focus in real life. He missed the raised eyebrow that Eric gave Pepper, and the small, slow nod she returned. Then Dog barked and the moment vanished.</p>
<p class="p1">Eric poured four cups of tea in mismatched mugs (“I’ve only got everyday I’m afraid, we can get more from the shop later”) and left them on the counter.</p>
<p class="p1">“Right, while they’re steeping, let’s get those bags upstairs.” He suggested. They followed him out of the kitchen and up the stairs to a small landing. Crowley grabbed the two remaining bags on the way.</p>
<p class="p1">“Bathroom at the top of the stairs here, then the rest are bedrooms. This one” Eric pointed to the door next to the bathroom, “is the big guest room, the next door along is me, and the door at the end is the box room which is just a single. Er, I’m not sure how you want to divide up?” He faltered, looking at the three of them, and the two spare rooms. Pepper pushed open the door of the larger guest room. There was one, large, double bed in the centre of the room, surrounded by soft, cream carpet. She glanced at Alistair to see that he had seen it too, and then at Crowley, who was pre-emptively frowning at her. Her face broke out into a mischievous grin.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well I was going to head off to my mum’s but Eric here seems such a wonderful host it would be a shame to leave now.” She said, staring down Crowley’s glare, obvious even through the sunglasses. Then she saw the wide-eyed look of panic on Alistair’s face, and relented.</p>
<p class="p1">“But I suppose I did promise my mum I’d be over for tea, and she’ll be really upset if I vanish off again.”</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair relaxed so quickly he very nearly sighed in relief at her words.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alistair will take the guest room as it’s at the back of the house. I’ll take the box room.” Crowley said firmly. He mouthed ‘What the fuck?’ at Pepper, and she stuck her tongue out at him. Crowley put Alistair’s bag on the end of his bed, before chucking his own into the box room, and they all headed back downstairs to get their tea.</p>
<p class="p1">Settled in the living room, Eric busied himself with lighting the log burner. Pepper curled up next to Alistair on the sofa opposite the fire, leaving the other for Eric. Crowley handed out the tea (taking great pleasure in handing Pepper a mug that simply said ‘Tits’ on it, although it was accompanied by various watercolours of small birds, so that was apparently OK), then perched himself in the window seat leaning against the wall, one leg dangling, the other drawn up so he could rest an elbow on his knee, and his chin on the hand in turn. He gazed out of the window, his own tea casually resting in his lap in a colossal white mug with bold blue and red letters on it. Alistair couldn’t help but admire the curve of his body, and the way the light fell across his face, sneaking in behind the sunglasses to undermine their shielding effect. Crowley seemed calmer here, and yet his eyes looked sad.</p>
<p class="p1">“I can take a picture, if you’d like?” Pepper muttered next to him. He shot her a warning look then sipped his tea. His mug had white and blue bands around it, with a golden band around the rim. Dog was sitting at his feet, looking at him rather intently with his head cocked to one side.</p>
<p class="p1">“And what can I do for you then?” Alistair asked Dog.</p>
<p class="p1">“He’ll be sizing you up.” Crowley said, without looking.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m sorry?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Sizing you up. He’s working out if you’re likely to give him a treat or let him sit on your lap. Seeing how much of a soft touch you are.” Crowley said, his voice slightly distant as if he was deep in thought.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, I… er-”</p>
<p class="p1">“What’s wrong with my lap then Dog?” Pepper demanded.</p>
<p class="p1">“He’s already sussed you.” Crowley sighed. “Drop your feet down.”</p>
<p class="p1">Pepper did so, and Dog immediately leaped up and curled into a doughnut on her lap. He had one eye peeking out, fixed on Alistair. Who found it wholly unnerving.</p>
<p class="p1">“So. You are to protect us then?” Alistair asked Dog.</p>
<p class="p1">“Don't underestimate him, the little Hellhound is a right noise machine. 'Sides, I prefer small dogs. Big dogs don’t know who they’re eating.” Crowley chuckled as he finally turned to face them, and Eric snorted from his seat on the other sofa.</p>
<p class="p1">“Crowley?” Alistair asked, tearing his eyes away from Dog, “How did you come to own this place? It’s not your usual aesthetic…”</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley seemed to deflate slightly on his perch.</p>
<p class="p1">“Inherited it. Grew up here.” </p>
<p class="p1">“Ah. It must hold a lot of memories for you.” Alistair said, glancing at Pepper who was busy cooing and fussing over Dog, and Eric who was studiously sipping his tea. He settled on examining one of the many floral watercolours that adorned the walls all over the house. The looping signature wasn't quite decipherable from his spot on the sofa, but it could easily say 'Lilith'. </p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, s'pose.” Crowley said thoughtfully. “Haven’t shown you the best bit yet though. Come on.” He said, suddenly springing to life. Alistair stood up to follow, looking back at Pepper, but she gave him an apologetic look that wouldn't have looked out of place on Michael.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sorry, can’t disturb Dog.”</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair narrowed his eyes at her but she just blew him a kiss. Eric was no help either, back turned where he'd crouched to poke the fire.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley grabbed their coats and headed for the back door.</p>
<p class="p1">“Wait until you see the garden. Mum loved the garden.” He said.</p>
<p class="p1">Stepping through the back door left Alistair stunned. The garden was long, south-facing and bordered by a mixed hedge that was just coming into leaf. There was a patio outside the back door to catch the sun and a path leading down to a small pond. About half way down there was an apple tree, Alistair recognised its knobbly, twisty form immediately, even with its bare branches, covered as they were in buds. The garden was just emerging from its winter dormancy, the winding borders dotted with early flowers already braving the cold - fading snowdrops and daffodils reaching for the weak sun with a tenuous promise of warmer weather to come. It was a lovely sight, and Alistair dearly wished he could see it in all its summer glory. But that wasn’t what took his breath away. Oh no, what took his breath away was the sheer expanse of sky all around it. There was not another house visible anywhere, and it was quiet. London was never quiet, and while he’d gotten used to it, there was something about only hearing birdsong and wind whistling through leaves that took him right back to his own childhood.</p>
<p class="p1">The garden drew him in, enticing him to come down, explore, see where the path of stepping stones leads. So he followed them. He was dimly aware of Crowley not far behind, but he was content just to marvel at the beauty of a garden waking up, the green of the hedges and conifers around them with the nearby treetops visible on one side, and the melody of passing songbirds. He used to know all the birds by their song, but it had been so long ago. He lamented the loss of his countryside knowledge, his childhood.</p>
<p class="p1">Then he reached the end of the garden with its low hedge, and looked out at the idyllic panorama below.</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s known as the ‘Devil’s Dyke’.” Crowley said, coming to stand next to him, long fingers curled around his tea to keep warm. The sun was out, and the clouds were drifting lazily across the powder blue sky overhead.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair looked at him, his coppery hair standing out against the greens and blues, his striking profile with that one bit of hair that always dangled so rakishly over his forehead being gently buffeted by the breeze, his breath mingling with the steam that rose from his tea. He had his collar turned up against the cold, its red lining on display. Alistair looked at the slight smile on Crowley's face as he gazed out over the landscape. He looked different here, softer, his face more open.</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s gorgeous.” Alistair said out loud. <em>You're gorgeous, </em>his heart screamed. And there was no denying either. The house was on the top of a hill. Not far from the end of the garden the ground dropped steeply away to a huge, dry, chalk valley. Alistair could see the valley wiggle away in both directions, with the land sloping gently back up again across the valley. From the end of the garden they could see miles and miles of pastoral farmland dotted with sheep and the occasional village, worthy of the finest Constable paintings. In the distance was the urban sprawl of Hove and Brighton, and beyond that, the glittering sea.</p>
<p class="p1">“Legend says the Devil himself came and dug it, trying to channel the sea inland to flood the local churches. Apparently he woke up a little old lady who either lit a candle, or startled her cockerel or something, which made the Devil panic and think it was morning. He did a runner, flinging the last shovel-full of earth into the sea, making the Isle of Wight.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Hmph.” Alistair was still marvelling at the view.</p>
<p class="p1">“All I know is I spent ages here as a kid when the wind was in the right direction, imagining flying away over this landscape. I did come back and fly over it properly one day.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh? And did it live up to your childhood imagination?” Alistair asked.</p>
<p class="p1">“Nah.” Crowley briefly turned to look at him with a sly smile playing on his lips, before turning back to the view. “It was better. Sometimes, when I was flying, it felt like I could just forget everything and glide on the air currents forever, being at one with the wind for ETERNITYYYYYY!” He finished with a loud bellow into the valley that startled a few rabbits and the handful of walkers braving the cold. Alistair let out a delighted laugh at the exuberance of it and the sheer joy on Crowley’s face.</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley wasn’t sure if it was the cold finally seeping in, or the expression on Alistair’s face that was causing the shiver that was dancing up and down his spine, but he was thankful for Eric shouting out of the window to come and get some lunch. He suspected the latter when his chest felt oddly warm at the sight of Alistair's resulting expression of excitement as he turned at the promise of food.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair looked back at him, and his face did that soft-focus thing again and Crowley resolved to see a doctor after this was all over, and possibly an optician too. </p>
<p class="p1">“It’s beautiful Crowley. Thank you for showing me this. It must be an absolute paradise when it’s all in full bloom.” And with that he turned and walked back up the garden path. Crowley followed after him, now trying not to picture Alistair reclined amongst the roses and the peonies in the warm summer sun. Jacket off and sleeves rolled up, for preference. </p>
<p class="p1">Eric and Pepper were looking out of the kitchen window at the two men coming back from the end of the garden.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’ve never seen Uncle Ant look like that.” Eric said. “I didn’t even know he could do that expression.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I know. The two of them are just ridiculous.” Pepper said, scratching Dog behind his ear where he was snuggled contentedly in her arms.</p>
<p class="p1">“He didn’t tell me he was seeing someone.” Eric pouted.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh they’re not together.” Pepper informed him. “They had one date, from which Alistair returned the next morning in tears, avoided each other for a week or so, including at an event last night where Crowley was supposed to be doing his job but instead I found him wallowing in self-pity, then we had another scare when we got home which knocked a bit of sense into them. Crowley says he can’t do his job if he gets too attached, but I get the impression he’s not exactly on his ‘A’ game as it is. I would have said they should just fuck and get it over with, but I think that’s what got them into this mess in the first place. That, and too many feelings which, being male, they’re too emotionally stunted to deal with.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Does Alistair know how Uncle Ant feels about him?” Eric asked her, still watching out the window.</p>
<p class="p1">“If he does, he’s the only one out of the two of them.” Pepper said. “Crowley's bound to figure it out eventually though, right?” She asked him hopefully.</p>
<p class="p1">“I bloody hope one of them does. Christ, it’s going to be fun being the third wheel isn’t it? Might have to come and stay with you and your mum if they get too insufferable.” Eric moaned. Pepper just laughed.</p>
<p class="p1">“Looks like it’s all down to you Dog.” She said, cupping his face to bring it up to hers. “You hear me? We’re counting on you, you little scallywag.”</p>
<p class="p1">Dog gave a little whine, then buried his face back down.</p>
<p class="p1">Pepper left shortly before dinner that night for her mum’s, promising to keep her phone on her at all times just in case. She’d made one more comment about staying at the house, to which Crowley promptly informed her she could share with him, as long as she didn’t mind the fact that he tended to starfish in the bed and snore loudly. This time Alistair was the one to shoot her a warning expression and receive the tongue stuck out in return. She gave Eric a pointed look as she was leaving that had him rolling his eyes and nodding before he shut and locked the door behind her.</p>
<p class="p1">The first evening was less awkward than Crowley expected, content as he was to watch Alistair from behind his sunglasses as he expertly extracted Eric’s life story so far, including some things that Eric hardly told anyone. Like Crowley, Eric didn’t know much about his birth, only that he had been one of a set of identical triplets. Growing up in foster care, he’d been searching for his brothers for years in and around working as a local guide and tour organiser for the National Trust, as well as managing the social media for the Devil’s Dyke site. He enjoyed his work, but he felt his brothers' absence often.</p>
<p class="p1">When they eventually retired, Crowley put Dog’s bed in front of Alistair’s door, instructing him to stay there for the night.</p>
<p class="p1">“He’ll bark like crazy if anything happens. Terriers may only be small dogs, but nobody’s told them that so he will take on anything. Except maybe the big ginger tomcat from the nearby farm that wanders in occasionally, but I think we can forgive him that.” Crowley smiled at Alistair and patted Dog's head, before bidding them both goodnight and sauntering off to his own room.</p>
<p class="p1">It took Crowley longer than usual to fall asleep. He'd never brought anyone here before. In fact there were very few people who knew about it at all. Only R.P. and a few people he'd worked with at the Met, and that was only because it took him a while to find a place in London when he started. And now Alistair. And he didn't know how to feel about that. He felt like he should be more wary of it than he was. </p>
<p class="p1">The next morning Alistair awoke to birdsong. It had been so long since he’d heard the dawn chorus that he lay in bed listening to it for quite some time before he realised that, for once, he’d slept all the way through the night. Eventually he heard the creak of the stairs, and after leaving a reasonable amount of time he got up, dressed, and went down himself.</p>
<p class="p1">It turned out to be Eric, who was in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea. Alistair felt slightly overdressed as he took in the pyjamas, cosy dressing gown and fluffy bunny slippers. Eric glanced around from where he’d been staring out of the window as Alistair walked in. Dog was noisily eating his breakfast from a bowl by the back door and didn’t react to him at all.</p>
<p class="p1">“Morning!” Eric said brightly. “The kites are out already.” He said, gesturing to the window. Alistair walked up next to him to look, and there were indeed two Red Kites circling over the valley beyond the end of the garden, their forked tail feathers darting around as they manoeuvred themselves through the air currents rising off the hillside.</p>
<p class="p1">“Uncle Ant normally doesn’t emerge for another few hours, but I was going to have some avocado on toast for breakfast if you fancy it?” Eric offered.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, bless you Eric, that sounds marvellous.” Alistair said, his mouth already watering at the prospect.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’ve only got one, big avocado, which will do for us, his nibs can sort himself out if he even wants breakfast.” Eric gestured upstairs before putting bread in the toaster and cutting up the avocado.</p>
<p class="p1">“Do you know, I barely see him eat at all.” Alistair said after a while. “And even when I do I only just see it happening, it’s all over so fast. You’d think he was expecting it to be taken away again.” Alistair joked, but his laughter stopped as he saw Eric’s hands freeze where he was spreading the avocado. Eric half turned to look at him out of the corner of his eye, his expression pained.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh. Oh my. Oh the poor thing.” Alistair felt sick. He desperately tried to think of something else to say, but his anguish was catching all his words in his throat.</p>
<p class="p1">“What… what happened to that monster? To Sam? In the end?” He managed to choke out.</p>
<p class="p1">Eric looked back down at his hands, and put down the knife he’d been holding.</p>
<p class="p1">“It was after Uncle Ant left the RAF. He'd come back down here while he worked out what to do next. At the time he was in town, came back and found Sam on the patio. The official report says he fell off a ladder and broke his neck. Joined the Met pretty soon after that. Anyway, let’s go eat, and I can give you the inside scoop on the Dyke.” He grabbed the two plates and swept past Alistair to the dining room, leaving him to bring the two mugs of tea. Today’s mugs were a black one bearing the slogan ‘Darkforce One’ for Eric, and a white one with a picture of a classically chubby baby cherub on for Alistair. It was holding a bow strung with an arrow with a heart shaped tip.</p>
<p class="p1">Eric was good on his word, and spent breakfast telling Alistair the history of the Devil’s Dyke, including some choice stories he didn’t normally tell the general public. After breakfast Eric went to get dressed and Alistair washed up, rolling up his sleeves and leaving his jacket hooked on the door. Dog sat by his right foot watching him curiously.</p>
<p class="p1">Now, Alistair loved animals. A true Brit, he grew up in the countryside, he was soft and he knew it, but he’d never actually had a pet, so faced with an animal that expected to interact with him he had no idea what to do. He settled for chatting to Dog as he washed up, telling Dog stories, things he’d read recently, anything that came to mind. It was incredibly freeing just letting himself think out loud while his hands were busy, and Dog was looking at him so attentively. Most people tended to think about what they were going to say next rather than really listen, so to have such undivided attention was incredibly refreshing, leaving Alistair feeling more relaxed than he'd been since this whole nasty business began. </p>
<p class="p1">Which is why he jumped out of his skin and nearly dropped the plate he was holding when a voice spoke from the doorway.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’ll have to start calling him ‘Nipper’” Crowley said. Alistair turned to look at him, the adrenaline surge from the fright causing his heart to hammer in his chest, and my goodness the sight that greeted him was not doing anything to quieten it. Crowley was leaning in the doorframe, and looked… soft. Relaxed. Sporting a genuine bed-head this time, he wore charcoal grey, comfy tracksuit trousers with a zip-up hoody that was hanging open over a loose fitting, faded, black Queen t-shirt. Alistair tried not to stare at his bare feet with their black painted toenails. Crowley looked so different to the usually immaculately preened man that he was used to. Alistair realised he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, and he felt privileged to be allowed to see Crowley so vulnerable. Seeing him like this felt somehow more intimate than seeing him naked had.</p>
<p class="p1">The blush from that thought surging onto his cheeks, Alistair turned back to the sink, his whole back prickling with the feeling of Crowley’s gaze on it.</p>
<p class="p1">“Nipper?” He asked, forcing his voice to remain casual. He tried to remember that the very cosy looking man behind him was still highly dangerous, and had seen more violence and death than Alistair even wanted to think about. Unfortunately that thought had the opposite effect, because while the blush was stubbornly staying put, his heart was now thumping to a very different, altogether more excited tune.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, Nipper is the dog in that painting, the one with the gramophone. ‘His Master’s Voice’.” Crowley drawled sleepily. “Dog is looking at you the same way.” Alistair looked back just as Crowley yawned and stretched his arms over his head and oh<em> Dog </em>the scintillating strip of stomach and hint of tattoo that that bared was not helping his situation, not now that he knew what lay beneath that precariously tied waistband. He tried to focus on the water rushing down the plughole as he tipped the bowl out, but suddenly Crowley was right next to him, appearing to his left holding a tea towel and drying up. It was frightfully domestic, and Alistair couldn’t decide if he wanted to shove Crowley into the counter and snog his face off, or share a different sort of intimacy. To just put a hand on him, perhaps slide it up under his t-shirt at the back and just rest it affectionately on the skin on his hip with the easy intimacy of established couples. He wanted Crowley, but he wanted him in every way. He wanted him physically - good gracious he was amazed anyone ever got anything done with him swaggering around, but he also wanted him like this. Quiet mornings doing mundane things, just being together. And that thought terrified him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Here.” Alistair realised Crowley was holding a box out to him. Dog was now teetering on his hind legs, spinning in excited circles and letting out a small whine.</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s his treats. He’s earned one. You can give him one and tell him he’s been a good boy.” Crowley told him, and oh if those two words combined with unshielded eye contact didn’t light something in Alistair that he’d rather not deal with in the kitchen of his bodyguard’s house. He took a treat from the box, held between thumb and first finger, and turned towards Dog. He startled when Crowley reached around from behind him and grabbed his wrist.</p>
<p class="p1">“Not like that, you will get nipped if you do that.” He said, his other hand coming around and taking the treat, before encouraging Alistair to open his hand out flat and placing it in the middle of his palm, and Alistair felt his mind go blank at the feeling of those long, graceful arms around him again, Crowley's head over his shoulder. He would only have to turn his head... </p>
<p class="p1">“Like that.” Crowley said, withdrawing and leaning against the counter behind him, arms and legs crossed again. And oh goodness, yes, Alistair liked that very much. He just about managed to focus on the task in hand enough to crouch down and put his hand out to Dog, who immediately shoved his snout into Alistair’s palm to gobble up the treat, licking it to make sure he got every last scrap, then looking up and quickly licking Alistair’s face before he had a chance to move out of range. He heard Crowley snort out a laugh behind him at his undignified squeak, while Dog ran off happily.</p>
<p class="p1">He stood up, adjusted his bow tie and shot Crowley a stern look.</p>
<p class="p1">“You knew he was going to do that, didn’t you.” He said accusingly, although there was no malice his voice.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, sorry Angel, it was just too tempting.” He smirked before returning to drying up and putting the dishes away.</p>
<p class="p1">Alistair froze at the use of the nickname, and he spotted the moment Crowley realised what he’d said as his hand paused on the way to putting a plate back in a cupboard.</p>
<p class="p1">Suddenly the kitchen was too small, and Alistair realised he was standing too close to Crowley. He needed to get away before he did something he was going to regret. As much as he wanted the simply exquisite creature before him he wanted to keep his dignity right now, and pinning Crowley against the aforementioned counter was surely the quickest way to lose it. He turned on his heels and fled the kitchen, not stopping until he got to his room and sat on the bed with his head in his hands, sucking in full lungfuls of air.</p>
<p class="p1">Downstairs, Crowley mentally kicked himself. They’d been so much more comfortable with each other yesterday, and he’d even relaxed a bit that the messiness was starting to clear, then he’d gone and fucking broken it all again with one idiotic slip of his treacherous tongue. It was the bloody forearms that did it. <em>Here lies Crowley, survived falling, stabbing, and shooting, finished off by a couple of bare forearms...</em></p>
<p class="p1">Eric came back into the kitchen, pulling on his bunny eared jumper. He took one look at Crowley where he stood, unmoving, leaning over the counter, forehead pressed against the cupboard, and rolled his eyes.</p>
<p class="p1">“Come on,” he said, “I’ll finish up in here, you go get dressed.”</p>
<p class="p1">Crowley sighed and went upstairs to have a shower. This time he made sure he had his shower gel <em>before</em> he stripped off.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Eric! I also have a soft spot for Eric, in case you couldn't tell. Eric calls Crowley 'Uncle Ant' because he knew him before he had the name 'Crowley'. He did offer to call him 'Crowley', but was told he didn't have to. Crowley secretly likes being an uncle, even if it is only honorary. </p>
<p>The 'Tits' mug:<br/>If you haven't come across Sarah Edmonds range of pun based wares, then you are missing a trick. Here is Pepper's mug: <a href="https://www.notonthehighstreet.com/sarahedmondsillustration/product/tits-bird-mug">Tits Mug at Notonthehighstreet</a>. Check out the rest of her stuff!<br/>Crowley is of course drinking from the ubiquitous Sports Direct vat masquerading as a mug that gets everywhere. <a href="https://images.app.goo.gl/BaRk99KfU2VMstm46">For reference if anyone hasn't seen one.</a></p>
<p>So you'll have to forgive me, I've romanticised the Devil's Dyke landscape somewhat. But this is fiction and if the story calls for a romantic view, it shall have one. The legends of its origin are true (as in I didn't make them up rather than ol' Lucie really creating them), and the Downs are chalk hills, but I've based the wider shape of it on a patch further up. Fulking is a real place too. When I looked up the Devil's Dyke on the map and found that perched on the edge it was too good not to use. </p>
<p>Average speed zones.<br/>I'm not sure if any other country does this, but right now nine miles of the M23 is an 'average speed zone'. They are doing major road works, so the three lanes get squeezed together, and the speed limit is set to fifty. Every so often (and at every junction) there are cameras on a bright yellow pole that scan and record license plates. They know how long it should take you to cover the distance between cameras if you go at the speed limit, so if you turn up on the camera too soon you get a lovely letter from the DVLA with a fine. They are dreadful things, only made bearable by having cruise control in the car. Which Pepper obviously doesn't have.</p>
<p>Fun fact:<br/>The 'Bunburying' reference is from The Importance of Being Earnest, which is probably my favourite play ever. I have also just discovered that 'Earnest' (at the time the play was written) was slang for a gay man. On the surface, 'Bunburying' was one of the main character's methods of avoiding social engagements by visiting a fictitious ill friend in the country, while the other main character visited his (real) young ward, Cecily. The (unconfirmed) theory goes that 'Bunburying' also referred to gay sex, and apparently a 'Cecily' was a rent-boy. </p>
<p>Nipper:<br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/His_Master%27s_Voice#/media/File:His_Master's_Voice.jpg">This is nipper.</a></p>
<p>As for the official report into Sam's death, what do you think?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Unlucky for some</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter thirteen, and it’s a rollercoaster of a chapter. Buckle up folks, there’s some major plot about to go down.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">The next few days passed fairly uneventfully. Alistair caught up on reading; Crowley pottered around in the garden pulling up opportunistic weeds and terrorising the emerging plants. Except for the apple tree. The apple tree simply received a pat and a nod well done.</p><p class="p1">Late one afternoon, the new moon hiding in the clear sky, Crowley dragged Alistair outside all bundled up in coats and blankets with a picnic tea to watch the sun go down.</p><p class="p1">“Trust me, it’s worth it.” Crowley had said when Alistair complained about the cold. “London’s got too much light pollution, but here it’s a dark sky. We’re too far north to see Alpha Centuri, but we should get some Zodiacal light. This is the best time of year to see it.”</p><p class="p1">The sunset had been glorious, accompanied as it was by cheese, wine and all manner of things to dip one's crusty sourdough chunks into. When it was followed by pears and a creamy chocolate pudding in a white ceramic bowl, Alistair couldn't help the wiggle of delight any more than he could stifle the sound he made at the first decadent mouthful. Ok so when he said 'perfectly capable' he had not forseen the combined effect that sunset, wine, and close proximity to Crowley would have on him. The blush conspicuous on both their cheeks (and Crowley resolutely not looking at him), they found distraction in the two bats that were swooping around in the dwindling light, each taking a champion to cheer for although neither kept score. Alistair decided he rather liked their drama-mouse style, spindly wings and all. </p><p class="p1">"You truly love all creatures, great and small, don't you?" Crowley teased, although the impact was rather ruined by the smudge of chocolate on the corner of his smirking mouth. Alistair concentrated on his own spoon. </p><p class="p1">The daylight gradually left the valley, and Alistair couldn't help but marvel at the way Crowley's hair glowed and his eyes turned to molten gold in the dying light. Sunset suited him — the end of the day, the cusp of night when everything felt possible and just a little bit naughty but you knew the darkness was coming and the rules felt different somehow. And then, as the last bit of light sauntered vaguely down over the horizon and the valley was claimed by the night creatures, the sky began to glow all over again. Alistair wrote it off as light pollution from a nearby city at first, but Crowley came to life, rattling off the science behind it and Alistair couldn't help the fond smile that settled on his lips.</p><p class="p1">As night fell properly, Alistair was forced to concede that the vast, twinkling panorama had indeed been worth braving the cold for, almost as much as the excuse to lie close to Crowley on their cleared blanket. Crowley leaned in and murmured into Alistair's ear, the smell of the wine on his warm breath mixed with his infuriatingly enigmatic scent leaving Alistair slightly light-headed as Crowley pointed out all the constellations and stars he knew. And if their hands were touching, well it was a small blanket for two fully-grown men.</p><p class="p1">The stars has been like this out in the orchards where Alistair grew up, the milky-way sweeping across the sky, but it had never seemed as enchanting as it did tonight through Crowley’s eyes. The joy and excitement on Crowley’s face was just visible in the dim light from the house as they peered together through unshielded eyes into the untamed depths of the universe. So yes, it was worth it, even without the hot chocolate he’d been promised for afterwards. </p><p class="p1">Alistair also took Eric up on his offer of a local tour, and with clumps of daffodils springing up everywhere it was simply glorious. Crowley ambled along after them holding Dog’s lead, adding in a few of his own facts as well as the odd story of daft things he’d got up to in his younger days. He basked in the way Alistair laughed as he told him tales of sledging mishaps, and the perils of playing on a slope with anything that had the slightest inclination to roll. It was a sound he was hearing more often out here and it was… nice. In amongst his rules was not to get too familiar, and that included telling his clients about his own baggage-filled past, but Alistair seemed genuinely interested and so far hadn’t judged him by what had happened to him.</p><p class="p1">Just what he had done himself.</p><p class="p1">Eric and Alistair nattered away like old friends as Crowley trailed after them down the footpath cut into the grass at the bottom of the valley. The open, grassy sides of the hills swept up either side of them, the thin layer of turf over chalk unable to support anything more substantial. At some point in the past some trees had managed to get their roots down far enough, and a dense woodland had sprung up on the top of the hill next to the house. Alistair was watching the gulls circling overhead and was explaining the fictional concept of ‘seagulls’ but Crowley had been distracted by the expression on his face and wasn't really listening. </p><p class="p1">The shrill sound of Crowley's phone ringing reminded him with a jolt that this was work and not play. They stopped to answer it, Crowley handing Dog’s lead to Eric. It was R.P. calling. Alistair shot him a concerned look as he answered.</p><p class="p1">“What's up?”</p><p class="p1">“Good news young man, that's what's up! We caught the bugger!” Crowley smiled broadly at Alistair, but he was listening to R.P. so didn’t have time to examine the expression that was returned.</p><p class="p1">“You’ve got him?”</p><p class="p1">“We certainly have my boy! You were on the money with that Sandalphon fella, he slipped up as they always do, and left a fingerprint on that last letter. Along with CCTV placing him at the club and witnesses who saw him in the cloakroom, we’ve been able to take him into custody. He’ll ‘go down’, as they say, for hate crimes and they’ll work on evidence for the box now they know where to look. Found all manner of incriminating evidence at his home they did, you should have seen the... yes, well, perhaps that’s best saved for another time. Oh, I should also mention, there was an incident where one of the wait staff was found drugged after the nominations party — they think she drank something left on one of the tables. The police are not sure if they’re linked so they’re looking into it, with my help, of course. But what a result, eh? I’d be very surprised if he saw daylight any time soon!” Crowley couldn’t help the swell of elation at those words. They’d got him. Alistair was safe.</p><p class="p1">“R.P., you’re a star. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I look forward to reading your full report. Ciao!” He said as he hung up. He turned to Alistair who was looking reservedly hopeful.</p><p class="p1">“They’ve got him Angel, he’s in custody. He left a fingerprint and they’ve got him on CCTV at the scene. The police have arrested him, and he's not coming out.” Crowley was grinning from ear to ear. He always liked it when he won, that moment of triumph as the world was one arsehole lighter. But this time he was filled with joy and relief. Relief that Alistair was safe. Relief that nobody was going to hurt his An- him again.</p><p class="p1">The way Alistair's face lit up had Crowley almost checking he was still wearing his sunglasses it was so bright. </p><p class="p1">“Oh, Crowley you wonderful thing, you did it! I knew you would!”</p><p class="p1">And Alistair threw himself across the gap they had been maintaining, wrapping his arms around Crowley and hugging him tightly. Crowley was so caught up in the moment that he coiled himself around Alistair and hugged him back for a brief moment, burying his face in Alistair’s neck and relishing that scent that felt so familiar, breathing into the grounding effect his touch seemed to have. Then Dog barked and they both came to their senses, springing apart and smoothing down their clothing awkwardly whilst avoiding each other’s gaze. Eric rolled his eyes and looked at his watch.</p><p class="p1">It was Alistair who eventually broke the silence.</p><p class="p1">“So, um, does that mean that it’s time for you to leave now? Now your job is done?” He asked, no longer smiling.</p><p class="p1">Crowley baulked at the thought. His mouth took over as his whole body shrank away from what came out of it.</p><p class="p1">“Wha, hur, ah, weerll, I mean, it’s my house, so technically it would be you leaving…” <em>Ah for fuck’s sake you twat what the hell was that supposed to be?!</em></p><p class="p1">“Oh. I see. Um, you’re right, of course.” Alistair visibly sagged.</p><p class="p1">Eric glared at Crowley and even Dog put a paw over his face, and Crowley thought fast. “Look, I mean, there’s no rush. They’ve got him for hate crimes but they still want to tie him to the box, so we’d probably be better staying put for a bit while they gather evidence? Avoid the pressss?” He said carefully.</p><p class="p1">“Oh! Yes, that, um, that does sound sensible, yes.” Alistair said, the hope creeping over his face. They looked at each other for a few tense moments. Well, Crowley looked, Alistair's eyes flitted all around the sunglasses, trying to divine some meaning from the furrowing of the brow above them.</p><p class="p1">“Right!” Eric said brightly. “Now that’s sorted, shall we find some lunch?” Two heads snapped round at him, having completely forgotten he was there. He lifted his eyebrows and looked at the both of them.</p><p class="p1">“You know? Food? Eaten in the middle of the day?” He tried. “There’s a nice little cafe not far from here, if we’re allowed out again now?”</p><p class="p1">“Yes! Wonderful. Lunch would be just the thing right now dear boy, lead on.” Alistair said, a bit too brightly. Eric led them back the way they’d come, and now Alistair was trailing behind Crowley. Crowley felt his back prickle. He always knew when he was being watched, and right now, he felt like he was under a magnifying glass. He felt himself becoming conscious of how he was walking, and didn’t know what to do with his hands.</p><p class="p1">Now there was no longer an active threat it was true that he didn’t strictly need to stay. In fact, this was usually the point at which he went home and slept for a week, but he didn’t want to go. He found himself looking for excuses to stay, and he got the impression that Alistair was too.</p><p class="p1">He grimaced. Messy. He should have known better.</p><p class="p1">Alistair was, indeed, examining every inch of Crowley, committing him to memory. Now he was safe, Crowley would surely find some excuse to take his leave and he would never see him again, and that thought was one he couldn’t quite let himself think right now. Mercifully they were soon back at the house, taking a short cut that only required a mild scramble up the side of the valley to a wooden gate nestled in the hedge. Once they got through the garden, Eric grabbed the keys to the Mini from inside the house, shutting Dog in with a pig’s ear to gnaw on, and they all piled into the car. Crowley folded himself into the back seat, his knees practically around his ears, and let Alistair sit in the front. They were only going a mile and a half down the road, but these were country lanes with no pavement or verge so walking was tempting fate somewhat. Especially with the way the lorries thundered about these days. </p><p class="p1">Bob’s Cafe turned out to be small enough to be cosy, but with light painted walls covered in locally produced art and white furniture, tables adorned with floral tablecloths, it had an airy, relaxed feel. They served simple, but very tasty, home cooked food — stews and sandwiches, along with a myriad of options for jacket potatoes, and a crowded display of cakes. Alistair couldn't decide what to try so asked for the cook to give him whatever he liked best. Half way through their food Crowley saw Alistair look up over his shoulder and blanche, as he heard an unwelcome voice he really wasn’t expecting.</p><p class="p1">“Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, what a coincidence! Must have been quite a while since you were last down here. Hello Alistair.” The voice was slimy, smarmy, and unmistakably smug. It made Alistair’s skin crawl and Crowley’s adrenaline spike. </p><p class="p1">“Hastur!” Crowley said as he turned in his seat to look at him, his face plastered with a smile that Michael would have been proud of. “I could say the same to you. What in the Devil’s name brings you all the way out here?” Hastur was wearing his usual grimy belted jacket, and an unlit cigarette hung between his lips, wobbling around as he spoke.</p><p class="p1">“Eh, Lord Beelzebub is opening the new power plant. The nuclear one up the road owned by Chalky Ltd. Just doing the usual reccy.” He said, looking around with only mild interest. He turned back to Crowley.</p><p class="p1">“You’re from ‘round here. I’ll have to steal you later, get the low down on the local area. We’re down the road at the Royal Oak. Tempt you to a pint tonight, and you can answer a few questions? Won’t be long. I’m sure Alistair is safe out here.” Hastur’s face contorted into what he probably thought was a smile, but it was nowhere near his eyes. His eyes just looked predatory.</p><p class="p1">Crowley looked at Alistair uncertainly.</p><p class="p1">“Go, dear boy. I’ll have Eric with me, and Dog, and I can always amuse myself in a book. We’ll be fine.”</p><p class="p1">Crowley turned to Hastur.</p><p class="p1">“Tomorrow night. Tonight’s a celebration.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh?” Hastur looked at Eric. “Bunny boy's birthday or something? Celebrate tonight then, and tomorrow you can fill me in.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, sure, whatever. Tomorrow then. Bye Hastur.” Crowley dismissed him. Hastur merely snorted and walked off, exiting the cafe and lighting his cigarette just outside the door before strolling away.</p><p class="p1">"Well he was a ray of sunshine." Eric commented.</p><p class="p1">"He is rather foul, isn't he. I must say I'm rather glad I don't have to work with him. I don't know how you do it Crowley." Alistair said, and Crowley couldn't answer for the swell of relief that Alistair had seen Hastur for the diabolical creep that he was. </p><p class="p1">After lunch, and a rather good Angel’s Food cake that Crowley thought so funny that he made Alistair try some, they went back to the house. Eric had work to do, and he disappeared upstairs with his laptop. Alistair looked over at Crowley.</p><p class="p1">“So. What are you in the mood for now?” He asked, bright blue eyes shining with delight.</p><p class="p1">“Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.” Crowley called out as he made a beeline for the kitchen. “Red, or white?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh red I think dear boy. I have a hankering for red at the moment.” Alistair replied.</p><p class="p1">“Red it is then.” Crowley said, pouring two glasses.</p><p class="p1">And so, they found themselves several hours (and bottles) later, in the living room. Eric had reappeared briefly to get some tea, taken one look at the two of them and wisely retreated back to his room. Dog had fallen asleep by Alistair’s feet.</p><p class="p1">Alistair was sat on one of the sofas, his body deceptively upright with one elbow draped over the sofa arm and the wine glass resting on it, watching Crowley as he paced back and forth across the large rug in the centre of the room.</p><p class="p1">“But, dolphins. ‘Atsss m’point. Mamamammals. Clevr’st creature after pe’ple. Do all three efefefffs.” Crowley slurred. He didn’t drink often, and he was feeling remarkably loose. Loose limbed, loose tongued, and loose brained.</p><p class="p1">“What? What effeffs?” Alistair was trying to keep up, but thinking straight was hard, and wasn’t being helped by Crowley parading around in front of him with his indecently long legs.</p><p class="p1">“Effs. Three of ‘em. S’what all higher mammals do.” Crowley perched on the arm of the other sofa, one leg up on the cushions to lean his elbow on, and counted off on his fingers. Well, in the vague vicinity of his fingers. “Feeding, fighting and fucking. ’S all dolphins do. Pretty looking buggers, but they spend a lot of time fighting, when they’re not fucking. Oh, four effs. They frolic a lot. Get away with it all though, ‘cos they’ve got ssstyle.”</p><p class="p1">“Style?” Alistair’s face screwed up in concentration and dammit if that wasn’t utterly adorable, Crowley thought.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah. Style. An’ they got a fifth eff. Fassst. If they weren’t so fucking fast and stylish we’d have been eating ‘em years ago. They’d all be booll- boullia- bolliaba-” Crowley was having trouble with his disobedient mouth.</p><p class="p1">“Boobila- boulila-” Alistair tried. His lips and tongue equally as mutinous.</p><p class="p1">“Fish stew by now.” Crowley finished. Alistair’s face slowly morphed into an appalled expression as he contemplated eating dolphin.</p><p class="p1">“Whatabout the apes. They don’t all just go around feeding, fighting and fornina- forkinate- fornicana-” Alistair attempted.</p><p class="p1">“Fucking.” Crowley supplied.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, that.”</p><p class="p1">“They do! You ever seen Bonobos? Randy buggers, the lot of ‘em. Not too much fighting, but ‘ats prolly cause they’re fucking each other all ‘a time. Handshake for ‘em is a quick tug or slippin’ a quick finger in." Ordinarily Alistair would have been offended by the accompanying hand gestures, but the alcohol was suggesting an altogether different response and he was finding it rather hard to argue.</p><p class="p1">"G’rilas, now, they fight a lot. Build nests too.” Crowley nodded at him sagely.</p><p class="p1">“That’s birds.”</p><p class="p1">“What?”</p><p class="p1">“Birds. Birds build nests.” Alistair was sure of it. Pretty sure.</p><p class="p1">“So do Gorillas. And Orgautananans. And those frisky Bonobos.”</p><p class="p1">“I, I, I, I can’t think about this right now. I’m too drunk.” Alistair slurred, the concept of casual sex too dangerous to think about in present company. He deposited his empty glass on the side table next to him and rubbed his eyes.</p><p class="p1">“Tipsy as a Lord” Crowley cheered, raising his glass, and standing up, staggering into the middle of the room, then abruptly sitting back down again, this time next to Alistair.</p><p class="p1">“No standing. Too spinny.” He said as he sprawled loosely, one hand ending up, unwittingly, against Alistair's thigh. He looked into his glass, and drank the remainder in one large gulp.</p><p class="p1">“No legs…” Alistair muttered, giggling.</p><p class="p1">“More like too many ‘is time. Here, wassat big sea beastie in your books?” Crowley asked Alistair, something in his brain trying valiantly to get his attention over something Alistair just said. Or did perhaps. Who knows? Crowley’s eyebrows scrunched up in thought, and Alistair wished he’d take off his damn sunglasses.</p><p class="p1">Alistair looked down as Crowley's thumb began to absent-mindedly stroke the fabric of his trousers. Crowley didn't seem to have noticed so he thought it might be rude to mention it, distracting as it was. </p><p class="p1">“Hmm? Oh, the Kraken. Great biiiig bugger.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, ‘at one. Wonder how many effefeffs he-” Crowley looked over at Alistair who had this head back and his eyes closed. “Here, Angel, are you fallin’ ‘sssleep?” He asked.</p><p class="p1">“Hmm? Oh I suppose I am dear boy.” Falling into something, certainly. He wished he had taken off his jacket, it was rather warm with Crowley sat so close. </p><p class="p1">“Wha’th’fuck you doin’ it here for? Got a bed upstairs.” Crowley said.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, I suppose I do. Right. Off to bed.” Alistair had enough willpower left to realise he was treading dangerously close to the line they had drawn in the sand. He hauled himself approximately to his feet and promptly fell back down on the sofa as Dog woke up and jumped out of the way.</p><p class="p1">“Nah, nah ‘snot how you do it. Here.” Crowley leant across Alistair, his body brushing against him momentarily as his usually precarious balance was derailed even further by the inner chimp shoving him. He put his empty glass down on the side table, standing up on the second attempt and offering both hands to Alistair.</p><p class="p1">“C’mon.” He said. Alistair grabbed his hands and together they managed to get upright through a mixture of luck and leaning heavily on one another. In between Crowley’s exuberant lamb on stilts and Alistair’s solid tree that couldn’t decide which way it was being felled, they eventually made it to the living room door.</p><p class="p1">“My dear are you dancing with me or taking me to bed?” Alistair asked with a giggle. Crowley’s sozzled brain couldn’t cope with any of the options in that sentence right now so he opted for a non-committal grunt.</p><p class="p1">“D’you know, there were these scholars, not hugely scientific mind you, but scholars nonetheless, who spent a considerable amount of time trying to work out how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” Alistair said as they made their unsteady way to the stairs.</p><p class="p1">“Wha’for?” Crowley asked, his brow creased by the effort of thinking about angels without picturing Alistair.</p><p class="p1">“No idea my dear boy!” Alistair answered with glee, sending them back three paces with a wild swing of his arm.</p><p class="p1">“Might as well ask how many demons dance on pin, oof, heads.” Crowley suggested as they returned to the bottom step by way of the opposite wall. They both considered the stairs for a moment with trepidation.</p><p class="p1">“Prolly better dancers, y’r average demon. Do angels even dance? What sort of dance would you even do?” Crowley wondered as his hand found the banister and they set off.</p><p class="p1">Alistair seemed to be considering this. “Wouldn’t be a partner dance, those are all just socialally acceptable mating ritualszh.” He giggled. “Can you imagine? Angels on one side, demons on the other. Would the angels ever actually dance with the demons do you think? Prob’ly not. Wouldn't be much point. Can’t imagine demons are even capable of love.”</p><p class="p1">Crowley felt that like a kick to the chest for some reason. The alcohol dampened it, but he knew it was there. He was confusedly half forming an objection, but before he could get it out, Alistair spoke again.</p><p class="p1">“B’sides from ev’rything I’ve read, angels seem to be sexless unless they’re making an effort!” Crowley snorted out a laugh.</p><p class="p1">“Guess you’re not an angel after all.” He chuckled as they made it successfully to the landing.</p><p class="p1">Alistair looked at him quite seriously (or as seriously as you can be whilst trying not to go cross-eyed and failing slightly) as they made it through his bedroom door.</p><p class="p1">“P’raps you were just worth th’effort.”</p><p class="p1">Crowley dismissed that straight off the bat. He knew what he was, and the very thought of what Alistair was implying was utterly ridiculous. “Jacket off, Angel.” Crowley instructed. “Don’t wanna damage it.”</p><p class="p1">“Only if you take off your sunglasses.” Alistair pouted. Crowley frowned and put a hand on his face, connecting with the sunglasses on the second attempt.</p><p class="p1">“Huh. Didn’t know they were there.” He mumbled as he pulled them off, folded them and slid them into the pocket of his jacket. Unfortunately his jacket was back downstairs, so they just ended up dropping quietly onto the soft carpet. Alistair was getting tangled in his own jacket so Crowley grabbed it and helped him get it off, causing Alistair to stumble and grab Crowley again. Alistair fell over backwards onto the bed, forgetting to let go of Crowley who tumbled after him, twisting at the last minute to land by his side. Alistair wriggled up the bed, and just as Crowley was about to mount 'operation vertical' again, two hands reached down and hoisted him up the bed as well. After a brief moment of shock (and just a smidge of arousal. All right a bit more than a smidge but it was battling against a lot of alcohol) on Crowley’s part at Alistair’s casual feat of strength, they both looked at each other and giggled. Alistair wriggled closer to Crowley.</p><p class="p1">“Made it!” He said triumphantly. “My hero.”</p><p class="p1">Crowley frowned at him. “Shut uuup.” He said sleepily, flopping onto his front. “Why’s ‘iss bed so ssssoft.” Crowley could feel himself sinking into the mattress. It was extremely comfortable. A hand found its way into his hair.</p><p class="p1">“Soft, soft, soft.” Alistair said as he stroked.</p><p class="p1">“Nah, you’re the soft one.” Crowley insisted, his voice somewhat muffled from his face being squashed in the pillow. “’S. lovely. I like soft.” And to emphasise his point he reached out and smoothed a thumb over Alistair’s bottom lip. Alistair's lips parted and Crowley briefly thought about pressing his own to them, his tongue clamouring for company in his mouth, but the movement of the hand on his head was unbearably soothing, the bed was deliriously comfortable, and before he could get up the coordination to do it in his inebriated state, he succumbed to the pull of sleep.</p><p class="p2"> </p><hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Crowley woke up some hours later and immediately regretted it. Consciousness was too bright, too loud, and dryer than Gandhi’s flip flops. And the room felt wrong, the window was in the wrong place and the walls seemed to have moved. Better to go back to sleep while it all sorted itself out, he decided. He tried to roll over, but he was completely tangled in the sheets. With his eyes closed against the barrage of light he patted his hand around, pulling at bits of duvet to try and find the bit that was wrapped so tight around his chest. He finally got down to the twisted section holding him in place and stopped.</p><p class="p1">Unless he was very much mistaken, it wasn’t the duvet holding him so tight. It felt very much like an arm. He vaguely registered that his legs felt so constricted because he’d fallen asleep in his clothes. He felt the dread settle fast and low in his stomach as he heard a snort behind him, and a puff of air was sighed out across his neck as the arm tightened slightly.</p><p class="p1">Snatches of the previous night barged their way into his aching brain, with the grand finale of him falling asleep (or perhaps it was fairer to say passing out?) in Alistair’s bed. <em>Shit. </em></p><p class="p1">Well, at least they were fully clothed. <em>Or at least I am,</em> Crowley thought with a brief flurry of panic. He gently inspected the arm, and yes, thank somebody, there was a shirt sleeve there.</p><p class="p1">Crowley was starting to feel sick, and whether that was from the hangover, or from having woken up in bed tangled up with his client again, he didn’t much care. What he needed right now was coffee, and fresh air.</p><p class="p1">Crowley held his breath as he painstakingly inched Alistair’s arm out from around him. Dragging his pillow down, he managed to drape the arm over that instead, allowing him to escape unnoticed. Alistair merely hugged the pillow a bit tighter and inhaled deeply before settling back down again with a smile. Keeping a watchful eye on him in case he stirred, Crowley crept across the carpet and didn’t breathe properly again until he was out of the room.</p><p class="p1">A brief, cool shower and a change of clothes to a slightly less form fitting black shirt over his more comfortable jeans, and he was downstairs searching for his sunglasses while he waited for the coffee machine to do its thing. Mercifully Eric seemed to be out, presumably taking Dog for a walk judging by the lack of a jumping, furry, hangover aggravating noise. He remembered putting his sunglasses in his jacket pocket? Perhaps? Crowley heard the sound of the coffee machine dispensing the life-giving brew coming from the kitchen, but it didn’t sound quite right. Crowley went to investigate.</p><p class="p1">“Shit!” He hissed. The coffee was merrily pouring itself all over the worktop and splashing down onto the floor as the mug (one of those ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ posters on the side, but this one said ‘Shut Up and Deal With It’) sat innocently a foot away from the machine. Crowley was in the middle of cleaning up the mess when a very adorably dishevelled Alistair bumbled in, holding his sunglasses.</p><p class="p1">“Ah! Where’d you find them?” Crowley asked over his shoulder as he mopped up the spilt coffee.</p><p class="p1">“On my bedroom floor.” Alistair said carefully. “Crowley, why does my bed smell like you? Can you remember what… happened last night? Did we… um…?” The question hung in the air, and oh Alistair sounded so small and frightened. Crowley put all the wet paper towel in the bowl destined for the compost bin and washed his hands.</p><p class="p1">“No. Or, yes I remember, but no I don’t think we did. I think we just passed out. We got through rather a lot…” He gestured at the empty bottles lined up on the counter, hoping Alistair hadn’t seen him blushing. “I remember falling down on the bed, and something about it being soft? Then it was morning and I feel like death.” He had a surprisingly clear mental image of Alistair’s face with his thumb on his lip, but he wasn’t about to dredge that up. Especially not if his memory of Alistair’s expression was accurate.</p><p class="p1">Crowley turned to look at Alistair. He looked about as awful as Crowley felt, his emotions all battling it out for control of his face. He looked relieved, yet disappointed, a little bit frightened, and a lot hungover. Crowley had never seen him look so small. <em>He knows what you smell like…</em></p><p class="p1">“Here, have some paracetamol, and I’ll make you some coffee. Go shower and change, you’ll feel much better.” Crowley told him gently, handing him the packet of painkillers. Alistair looked as if he was about to say something, but gave up, turned around and drifted back upstairs.</p><p class="p1">“Right.” Crowley said, turning back to the coffee machine. “Let’s try this again, shall we?” He said, making sure he put his mug under it this time.</p><p class="p1">His own coffee made, Crowley went to put the machine on again for Alistair, stopped, and filled the kettle instead. He rooted around until he found the cherub mug in the clean dishwasher, put a teabag in it and set it to one side. When he heard the shower turn off and Alistair's footsteps take him across the landing, he poured the hot water in the mug leaving the sugar and milk next to it, grabbed his coat and went outside.</p><p class="p1">This was his tried and tested method of curing a hangover, and the reason he had spent so long looking for a flat with a balcony in London. He stood at the end of the garden cradling his coffee in his hands and let the fresh air rolling inland from the sea blast his hangover away. It wasn't quite the same in the city with the level of pollution, but it was still his ritual. After a little while Alistair joined him. They stood side by side in silence for a good twenty minutes, wordlessly sipping their drinks.</p><p class="p1">“Well you both look like shit. I thought the country air was supposed to be good for you?” Pepper said suddenly. Alistair jumped, narrowly avoiding sloshing his tea all over himself. Pepper appeared next to Alistair and looked over at both of them. Alistair looked incredibly guilty, and Crowley scowled at her.</p><p class="p1">“What the hell happened to you two?” She asked. “Wait, do I even want to know?”</p><p class="p1">“Alcohol. Got wasted.” Crowley said simply, turning back to look out down the valley and supressing a shudder at the memory.</p><p class="p1">"We were rather squiffy, weren't we?" Alistair agreed, wrinkling his nose. </p><p class="p1">"Totally rat-arsed." Crowley nodded. Alistair sipped his tea in thought.</p><p class="p1">"Completely blotto." </p><p class="p1">"Thoroughly shit-faced." Crowley grinned, looking sideways at Alistair out of the corner of his eye.</p><p class="p1">"Monumentally pifflicated." Alistair responded, keeping his gaze forward to hide the curl of his mouth.</p><p class="p1">"Nuh-uh. You made that up!" Crowley turned to him properly. </p><p class="p1">"Oh no dear boy, I assure you 'pifflicated' is correct, albeit sadly rather out of use." </p><p class="p1">“Hmph.” Crowley allowed it. </p><p class="p1">Pepper didn’t look very impressed.</p><p class="p1">“Aren’t you supposed to stay sober, in case someone attacks, or something?” She narrowed her eyes at Crowley.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, it’s quite alright my dear, we got the call yesterday to say they found him. He’s in custody. We were quite safe.” Alistair said mildly, turning to her with a weak smile.</p><p class="p1">“WHAT?! And you didn’t think to call me? Let me know?” Pepper was incredulous as they both winced at her outburst. “Have you told Anathema? Or Tracy? Do you have any idea how worried they are?”</p><p class="p1">They both managed to look a little sheepish at the realisation that no, neither of them had thought to tell anyone else that the attacker had been caught. Although Alistair wondered if that was strictly true. Deep down somewhere the thought had occurred to him, but telling everyone else would have meant leaving or coming up with a viable excuse not to, and strangely enough, neither of them had brought it up.</p><p class="p1">Pepper let out an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. “Well I’ve made plans with mum tonight so we can’t go home yet anyway. Now call Anathema and tell her the news you idiot! Then tomorrow we can discuss the plan for the awards ceremony. I imagine you’ll want Crowley to stay on just in case?” She said, rather pointedly.</p><p class="p1">“I, um, hadn’t thought that far my dear, it does seem sensible I suppose, but it’s really up to Crowley.” Alistair said, keeping his face turned away from him. Pepper didn’t even bother to look.</p><p class="p1">“Good. Glad that’s sorted. Now, you going to show me around or what?” She demanded, sweeping an arm out towards the valley, only the slightest bit of self-satisfaction evident in her voice.</p><p class="p2"> </p><hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Hangover successfully banished, Anathema brought up to speed (and suitably sarcastic in her response) and Pepper sufficiently mollified, that evening Crowley found himself borrowing Eric’s car and heading to the pub. He was not looking forward to this meeting, but it paid to have Hastur and Ligur on side so he needed to put the legwork in. Alistair had waved him off with assurances that he would be fine, the threat was gone and he had the books, after all.</p><p class="p1">The pub itself was a traditional, old, country pub. Low, dark beams, inglenook fireplace and horse brasses hanging all over the place. The carpet underfoot had that archetypal hideous pattern that looked like the visual representation of a hangover, popular for its ability to camouflage a multitude of sins and spills. Crowley winced at the reminder. The seating was more dark wood, a mismatch of different chairs and benches, the odd short pew, all arranged around dark, sticky tables strewn with beer mats. Three taps advertised the ales on at the moment, along with two regular lagers and a cider, all interspersed between boxes of napkins, and bar towels. Behind was a row of spirits nestled in their optics above a shelf of glasses and a bank of under-counter fridges full of bottles both alcoholic and soft. Crowley wound his way To the bar through the throng of people, ducking around the mugs hanging from the ceiling. Nothing much had changed here in the years since he first ventured in. Even the old jukebox in one corner was still there. He wondered if they’d ever got the glitch fixed.</p><p class="p1">“Pint of uh… Dark Star ‘Holy Vible’ please.” He said when he caught the young barman’s eye. Not one he’d usually go for, but something about its pale colour appealed to him tonight. He waved a card lazily at the machine and turned to wait for Hastur. In the corner he spotted the bar billiards table and smiled. Now there was something he hadn’t played in years. The small table sat with its three little peg men guarding the three highest value holes, the lower value holes around it deemed unworthy of protection. He’d spent a lot of time on this table in his youth.</p><p class="p1">“Think you’ve got what it takes?” Hastur said, appearing next to him, gesturing at the table. He had a wobbly, lopsided grin, and he was holding a pint glass half empty with something dark and sticky. Crowley glanced around for the other half of this despicable double act. </p><p class="p1">"Ligur's been sent to refresh his fire safety knowledge." Hastur said. "'S just you an' me kiddo."</p><p class="p1">Crowley tried not to think about what incident had sparked off Ligur's retraining this time.</p><p class="p1">“One game.” Crowley said. “You’ve got one game’s worth to ask whatever you want.” He sauntered off towards the table and picked up a cue.</p><p class="p1">And so they played and they talked. Crowley talked about all the roads, and the places they would need to watch out for, he talked about the pubs that were worth going to, and the ones to avoid. They talked strategy for going into Brighton with its labyrinth of one way streets, narrow lanes and oblivious pedestrians, not to mention the general undertone of cheerful anarchy.</p><p class="p1">Finally they were down to the last ball. Hastur needed to get it into one of the guarded holes without knocking one of the little peg men over if he wanted to win. This would require bouncing it off the side, and as he lined up the shot down his cue Crowley leaned nonchalantly against the wall next to the table.</p><p class="p1">“So Hastur. You have to ask yourself: do you feel lucky?” Crowley said with a smirk.</p><p class="p1">Hastur looked up at him. “Yes.” He said. “Do you?” Crowley leaned forward, and Hastur took his shot just as the jukebox volume shot up to eleven with a heavy synth beat singing ‘Burning Down the House!’ Hastur flinched and hot ball went wide of the mark, knocking over the black peg man before falling into the hole.</p><p class="p1">Crowley hissed air in through his teeth. “Oooooh, bad luck there fella, that’s your whole score.” He said brightly, leaning his cue back against the wall and sliding Hastur’s marker back to zero with a satisfying thunk. “And with that, I’m off. Ciao!” He called and he sauntered off before Hastur could do anything about it, downing the last gulp of beer and depositing his glass back on a table as he passed. Heavy rain had started to fall outside while they had been playing, and Crowley took off his sunglasses for the short drive home, throwing them onto the passenger seat. The wind was gusting around in a frantic dance, and the air was thick with the promise of thunder before the night was through.</p><p class="p1">Not even the huge torrent of water that was thrown over the Mini by the passing fire engines at the car park exit could dampen down his happiness at finally leaving. He pulled out after them, humming the catchy tune that had had such fortuitous timing.</p><p class="p1">As they turned into the dirt track that the house was on, he started to feel that rising dread and the song died on his lips.</p><p class="p1">As he looked through the trees being buffeted by the wind at the raging inferno that was his house, he started to panic in earnest. </p><p class="p1">Pepper had left for her mum’s hours ago, but Eric, Dog and Alistair were all in there. He’d left them in the house while he went out. They should have been safe.</p><p class="p1">He’d left them.</p><p class="p1">He’d left them, and now the house was <em>burning</em>.</p><p class="p1">He came to a stop behind the fire engines, abandoning the car to one side and leaping out like a man possessed to run through the torrential rain towards the flames. He barely remembered to turn off the engine. </p><p class="p1">“Oi! Do you live here?” Shouted a firefighter. Another one grabbed him to stop him from entering the house.</p><p class="p1">“Do I look like I live in the country?” Crowley snarled at them. The firefighter had his arms pinned in a bear hug, but somehow he managed to wriggle his body in a way that shouldn’t have been humanly possible, and broke free, running towards the inferno until the heat became unbearable despite the weather. The wind was fanning the flames, and the rain falling could have been vaporising in the air above it for all the good it was doing. He peered into the fire as much as he could, desperate to see life, the flashing blue lights behind him casting erratic shadows on the house wall. </p><p class="p1">“Alistair! ALISTAIR! Where the Heaven are you, you idiot? I can’t see you! Eric! Dog! Come here boy!” He was frantic, pacing back and forth in front of the house screaming their names as he slipped and slid in his snakeskin boots on a front lawn that was rapidly churning up into mud and splattering up his legs. Two high pressured jets of water were either side of him, trying to put the fire out, while he shook off the firefighter who kept trying to pull him back. The living room window at the front had been smashed in by the hose, and the other was aimed through the remains of the upstairs window into what had been his room.</p><p class="p1">“For someone’s sake! Where are you?!” He screamed. The terror was fully taking over now and he kept edging closer and closer to the flames, pushing into the wall of heat. He had left them. This had only happened because he had left them. <em>They should have been safe.</em></p><p class="p1">And then as he watched through the broken window, the upstairs floor inside the house collapsed, taking half of the living room wall with it. His shocked pause was all the firefighter needed to grab him and drag him, kicking and fighting, away past the others armed with hoses.</p><p class="p1">“What d’you reckon?” He heard one yell.</p><p class="p1">“House doesn’t stand a chance. S’gotta be arson. Blaze like this? Had to have some help.” The other shouted back.</p><p class="p1"><em>He’s gone.</em> Thought Crowley. <em>Someone’s killed him. The only man I ever felt deserved saving, and I couldn’t do it. </em></p><p class="p1">Once he’d been dragged around to the other side of the engines, the firefighter shoved him against Eric’s car. Crowley was in shock. He slowly turned just as the visor lifted, and an angry female face glared at him.</p><p class="p1">“You’ve got to stop. Let us do our job. We can’t get in there to see if anyone’s trapped while you are out here trying to get yourself killed, so stay out of it. Alright?” It wasn’t a question.</p><p class="p1">Crowley nodded mutely and she let go of his chest and ran back into the action. <em>It should have been me, </em>he thought.<em> I should be in there.</em> He walked away in a daze, knowing if he stayed that he wouldn’t be able to keep out of the firefighters’ way. The light of the flames lit up the road with long, dancing shadows and a spectre of a tall, hooded figure weaved through the trees, while the wind wailed like a banshee through the bare branches. But no hellish visions could compare with the screaming void in his chest right now. Right now he just had to keep walking. Get away from the fire. Get away, and maybe it won’t have happened. Maybe he won’t have failed them.</p><p class="p1">Crowley ended up where he always went in times of crisis: in the pub. The local pub was only a few doors down and it was a place he had gone to often when he needed help, his feet remembering the route from a lifetime ago, while his brain shut down in self defence.</p><p class="p1">The Shepherd and Dog was another archetypical, old, country pub. It had beermats decorating the walls between the dark oak beams, a lovely quaint atmosphere and a roaring fire, but more importantly it had alcohol, and right now Crowley needed to stop feeling, and that was the quickest (and most readily available) option. </p><p class="p1">The conversation stopped as he walked in through the door, the background music briefly becoming audible, before the chatter quickly started up again much quieter and with a few furtive looks thrown in his direction. His clothes were soaked and filthy with ash and mud, rain streaked down the black grime on his face and his hair was plastered to his head. He looked like he’d been to hell and back. He sat down on a stool at one end of the bar, his fingers automatically coming up to trace the 'A' that had been scored there so long ago. </p><p class="p1">“Whisky.” He said, his voice hoarse from shouting. The landlord took one look at him, brought over the bottle and a glass and poured him a generous measure, setting them both down in front of him. Crowley took one gulp, then promptly laid his forehead down on his arm, shaking with the shock. He was ex-fucking-SAS, he was not supposed to react like this, but here he was, shaking like a fucking leaf. </p><p class="p1">“We heard the engines Anthony. It’s not the cottage is it?” The landlord asked gently. He’d been here for as long as anyone could remember and knew most of the patrons for the best part of, if not all of, their lives. Small villages tended to congregate around the pub, and the landlord here knew his role. He was an ear to those that needed to talk, and a silent face to those that just needed space. He could murmur something only you could hear, but likewise he could bellow across a crowded bar if someone was misbehaving (and he would hear and see you do it every time). Coming from a farming family, his stocky build helped when the barrels needed replacing as well as when a patron had had overestimated their tolerance and needed a helping hand out of the door. At full height he was just shy of the beams, almost as if he had been grown specifically to fit the space. The country life clearly suited him though, as he was approaching retirement age and showing no signs of slowing down whatsoever, his marled grey and white hair the only concession to his age beyond the laughter lines that framed his twinkling blue eyes. He’d never married. The rumour was he’d been in love once, but she had died, married to another man, never knowing how much he had adored her.</p><p class="p1">Crowley held up the glass for a refill, which the landlord obliged, before he lifted his head to gulp it down and looked across the bar at him. Crowley jerked his head into a nod.</p><p class="p1">“Heard one of the crew suggest arson. ’S all my fault Paxton. Eric was in there. Dog was in there. Al… Alistair was in there.” Crowley’s voice cracked. “None of them have come out. I was supposed to be protecting him. All my fault. I shouldn’t have left, I should’ve been there. Should’ve been me.”</p><p class="p1">He held his glass out again, and as it was poured a bright light flashed, followed by a crash of thunder.</p><p class="p1">The door crashed open again, letting in another wild blast of cold, wet air as it framed the firefighter from earlier. She looked around and saw Crowley, strode in and stopped next to him, taking off her helmet and holding it in her hands. The whole pub fell silent and watched.  Crowley's reputation had been mixed while he was growing up, but nobody wished for this.</p><p class="p1">“Thought you might be in here.” She said. “We’ve managed to get the fire under control, but we can’t get in there until it’s all out — the risk is too great to the crew from the falling masonry.” She put a gloved hand on his shoulder.</p><p class="p1">“Have you found them? Have you found Eric and Dog and… and Alistair?” He choked out.</p><p class="p1">“Not yet sir, but if they were in there, I wouldn’t hold out much hope sir. I’m sorry. It would have taken a miracle for anyone to have got out of there alive.” She looked at Paxton who nodded in understanding, before giving Crowley a pat on the shoulder.</p><p class="p1">“I’m very sorry for your loss sir. We’ll be in touch in the morning, and we’ll get our forensic team to have a look and work with the police to find out what happened.” And she left, going back out into the wild night.</p><p class="p1">Crowley kept on drinking, but it wasn’t helping. His mind just wouldn’t stop. Paxton would come back and check on him occasionally as he dried off, until the other drinkers had all gradually left, all offering condolences to Crowley on their way out into the storm. </p><p class="p1">“Anthony, have you got anywhere you can go tonight?” Paxton asked gently as the last person left.</p><p class="p1">“I never asked for this you know.” Crowley mumbled. “Ws just mindin’ my own business when she called, and oh! Lookie here! Here’s nice little man who needs my help! Next thing I know I’m sauntering into their lives, and he won’t get out of my head.” He gulped down his glass, and Paxton took away the bottle.</p><p class="p1">“Right. I’ve got a room upstairs you can use tonight, and we’ll get you all sorted tomorrow.”</p><p class="p1">Crowley patted around looking for his pockets.</p><p class="p1">“No you don’t. Don’t even think about it. I promised your mum that I would look out for you, and I’m not about to break that promise. Now, I’m going to clear up, and then we’ll get you settled.”</p><p class="p1">Whitney sang out ‘I have nothing, nothing, nothing… If I don’t have you’ as thunder crashed again overhead.</p><p class="p1">Crowley put his head back down on his arm. Suddenly he felt like he was thirteen again and running away from another of Sam’s benders, scared and angry and desperate and all alone, and feeling utterly powerless.</p><p class="p1">Lightning flashed, thunder shook the windows, and Crowley couldn't stop the tears that were squeezing their way out through his lashes. He couldn't stop the way his lungs were gulping down air in stuttering bursts as if it would hurt less if he did it a bit at a time. The screaming and the smoke had left him with a burning throat that the whisky had only sharpened so each exhale through gritted teeth was punctuated by coughing as he fought to hold back his grief. Forces life had taught him pretty early on that men don't get sad, they get angry, and the SAS had taught him how to channel that anger into a tool he could use, but what can you do if the person you are angry with is yourself? When Raphael had been killed he'd been angry, angry that he wasn't there, angry that the person in his place hadn't been good enough, angry at the world that of all the days, it had to be that day. The one day he'd set aside for himself to go and visit her where she lay in perpetual slumber, and that was the day they struck. He'd had plenty of practice at angry over the years but anger has direction, it has a purpose, it drives you to somewhere (or someone) to resolve it. This cavernous feeling was directionless; he was adrift in a sea of grief with no idea which way to swim, or, indeed, if he should just let it pull him under. It felt like his soul had been ripped from his body which was surprising, as he'd never even contemplated having one until it was taken away.</p><p class="p1">Crowley slowly sank into a pit of despair as Paxton quietly cleaned up around him, the music having been discretely turned off as soon as Paxton could get to it. Crowley hadn't cried like this since... Christ, he hadn't cried like this since he was eleven and the very foundation upon which he'd been tentatively building his self was ripped out from under him. He knew that the 'boys don't cry' rule was bullshit of empire-forging proportions, but it was one thing telling another man it was ok to be vulnerable, and quite another trying to believe it for yourself. His sleeve was getting rather wet again, but he didn't have it in him to care. He didn't have it in him to care about anything right now. Alistair was gone, and with him the guiding light in Crowley’s world. <em>Guess he really is an angel now...</em></p><p class="p1">Curling in on himself a bit tighter, he decided if anyone needed saving now, they were on their own. Crowley was done.</p><p class="p1">It was going to be a dark, and stormy, night.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Had to be done 😔</p><p>This chapter had been unlucky for me, as my computer suffered a PICNIC glitch where I lost several days worth of editing. Thankfully I managed to remember most of it, and you got the sunset picnic out of it, so silver linings and all that (these two just cant help themselves, can they?). </p><p>And ofuckingcourse now it’s published I find the chapter with all my edits. I’m sorry Crowley ok? Jesus, gimme a break! I’ve reinstated the (frankly much better written) section at the end, but everything else was pretty much the same.  </p><p>There is no such thing as a ‘seagull’. There are Herring Gulls, Black Headed Gulls, and a variety of other prefixed ‘Gulls’, but none of them start with ‘sea’. So now you know. </p><p>As it turns out Alpha Centuri is not visible from the northern hemisphere (boo). And it's also three stars, not two (make of that what you will), but the closest of the three (proxima centuri) is so dim we can can't see it with the naked eye.  Zodiacal light is the glow you sometimes get on the horizon just after sunset. I've definitely seen it before and assumed it came from a city. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zodiacal_light"> Heres the science. </a></p><p> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonobo#Sociosexual_behaviour">Bonobos really do just spend all day having sex with anyone and everyone.</a></p><p>Bar Billiards is good fun, and great for small pubs as you play from one end of the table.  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bar_billiards">Rules and pictures of the table here. </a></p><p>The two pubs (and Bob's cafe) do exist, but I've based the interiors on places I know. The beer Crowley orders is brewed about nine miles from the pub he's in (which is in the next village over from where I've put his house). <a href="https://www.darkstarbrewing.co.uk/beers/holy-vible">Tasting notes if you're curious.</a></p><p>Paxton. Oh Paxton. His name means 'peace town' which is fitting as he is the safe haven. He's the dad Crowley deserved. Yes it was Lilith he was in love with, and the promise was made to her grave. Paxton is allowed to call him 'Anthony' because of their history.</p><p>(PICNIC - Problem In Chair, Not In Computer. Yeah, it was my own stupid fuck up.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. One step forward, two steps back.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The thunder rattled the pub windows again, and then kept rattling the door. Crowley frowned at it blearily. Thunder didn’t tend to be quite so localised, no matter how much you’d had to drink. </p>
<p>Over the sound of the rain hammering on the windows, a dog could be heard barking. Or, more specifically, Dog barking. </p>
<p>But it couldn’t be. Nobody got out, they said. It couldn’t be Dog. This was just his desperate mind playing tricks on him, and, unable to cope with the grief, it was making things up. Crowley tried to squash down the bubble of hope rising in his chest, turning back to the bar and sinking his head down, screwing his face up in an attempt to drown it out. But the barking didn’t stop, even when the door rattled its way open and Paxton came back. He put his hands over his ears to try and block the cruel phantom. He dimly heard Paxton start to say that they were closing, and anyway he didn’t allow dogs in the bar, then he stopped abruptly and it went very quiet.</p>
<p>“C-C-Crowley?” Came a voice, timid and hoarse, shivering with cold, but unmistakably the one that haunted Crowley’s dreams, and now in a twisted blow had come to haunt him in this living nightmare. He tightened his hands over his ears to try and block it out. <em>N</em><em>ope.</em></p>
<p>But then there was a dog and it was jumping up at his feet. He looked down, blinking furiously to try and clear the tears before giving up and swiping a dirty sleeve across his eyes. </p>
<p>No. Not just a dog. <em> Dog </em>. Filthy, soaking wet and shivering, but unmistakably Dog. He looked up as a figure moved next to him, an apparition in a dirty beige jacket, a drowned shadow of a man with mottled skin and blue lips under the streaks of soil and rain. A cruel hallucination with a terrified expression on its pale face, grey eyes wide and missing their glint when they should be blue and twinkling. Crowley squinted at it as it swam in and out of focus while his mind tried desperately to work out just what the fuck was going on.</p>
<p>“Angel?” He whispered as the blur resolved itself beyond all doubt. </p>
<p>“N-n-n-not yet, d-d-dear b-boy.” He said, teeth chattering, trying to smile. And that was it, Crowley realised, if he was going to hallucinate Alistair, he would have been comfortable. Not like this. He couldn’t stand seeing him like this. He went into autopilot, sobering up with impressive speed as he jumped up and shoved Alistair towards the heat of the hearth. His clothes were soaked and Crowley let out a half laugh as he touched him and he felt real, the solid reassurance that he was truly here, he had survived, miracles do happen.</p>
<p>Crowley sat Alistair on a wooden chair by the dying fire, fighting back the instinct to keep him far away from anything that burned. He dropped to his knees in front of him, gently turning Alistair’s head back and forth and picking up his hands, examining him all over without ever fully letting go. Crowley didn’t quite manage to stifle the anguished sound he made as he discovered Alistair wasn’t wearing any shoes, his feet only in soaking wet socks that had once, possibly, been beige tartan but were now grey with soil and wet chalk. </p>
<p>“Are you ok though? Are you hurt anywhere?” Crowley asked. There were minor scratches on his hands and face, and his suit was torn and muddy. Alistair hadn’t stopped staring at Crowley since he walked in, taking in the red-rimmed puffiness of his eyes and the salty residue on his face with mild surprise. </p>
<p>“A few bumps here and there, but I’ll survive. Thanks to Dog.” Alistair tried again for a smile but his face hadn’t warmed up enough yet. Dog’s ears perked up where Paxton was drying him off with a towel a discreet distance away.</p>
<p>“Alistair, what happened. Where’s Eric?” Crowley demanded, holding him by the shoulders. </p>
<p>Alistair’s face crumpled. Crowley hated himself as he watched him bury his face in his hands and weep. </p>
<p>“Oh, Crowley! He was right behind me!” Alistair gasped out. “When the fire started we ran straight for the back door, Dog ran off through a hole in the hedge, and I kept going out of the back gate but it was so dark. When Eric didn’t come out I thought he must have gone out of the front door. I tried to get round to the front of the house to find him but I got lost in the woods. It was so dark.”</p>
<p>Alistair tipped forward and buried his face in Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley had no choice but to wrap his arms around him and hold him tightly as his composure slipped and came crashing down in the safety and warmth of the pub. Crowley rested his cheek into the damp curls on Alistair’s head, already fighting to spring back out to their usual unruliness, and he tried to remember what you were supposed to do in moments like this. ‘Not be drunk’ probably wasn't even on the list for being too obvious. </p>
<p>“I couldn’t find Eric anywhere, and I thought it wasn't wise to stay near the house just in case. I don’t know how far I wandered and I know I ended up down in the valley at one point, then I tripped in a rabbit hole and fell and it was dark and cold and wet and… and… oh I was so scared Crowley! The thunder was so loud! I’d mostly given up and was going to wait until it got light, then Dog found me." Alistair raised his head to look at Crowley and the raw expression on his face was heartbreaking. "He… he saved me.” Crowley just held him tighter, rubbing one hand up and down his back in what he hoped was a soothing motion. Alistair was safe, but they still didn’t know if Eric made it out.</p>
<p>Crowley felt the anger rising through the fog of alcohol and bewildered relief. Someone was going to pay for this. He realised that this meant Sandalphon was just a regular, homophobic arsehole. It would be pretty damn impossible to pull this off from inside a police cell forty odd miles away. Something else was going on and he would get to the bottom of it. And he would not be merciful.</p>
<p>“Dog you clever boy!” He heard Paxton say, followed by the sounds of a biscuit being crunched. </p>
<p>“He really is a wonder.” Alistair said and Crowley tried to work out how a voice could sound soft-focus. “He just barked at me and jumped around until I followed him — mostly followed the noise he was making actually, back up to the top of the hill. I thought he would stop once we got to a house, but no, he kept barking at me and nipping at my heels to urge me on until we ended up here. He found you for me.” Alistair said, gazing into Crowley’s eyes, and Crowley’s poor heart couldn’t take that look. Not while it was still piecing itself back together. </p>
<p>“Whu- uh- Sounds more like he found you, for me.” Crowley said quietly, and then turned to Dog who was already wagging his tail. “And he is going to get steak for dinner from now on, because he is a GOOD BOY!” Paxton let out an exasperated groan as Dog went mad with excitement, throwing himself out of the towel he was supposed to be drying off with as he danced around in delight at the praise. </p>
<p>Alistair took a deep breath, inhaling that scent he’d come to think of as so comforting, and pulled away. Crowley didn’t want to let go, but that little voice reminded him that Alistair wasn’t his to keep. He shoved his hands in his pockets to make sure they behaved as he sat back on his heels. </p>
<p>“Thank you Crowley, and… sorry about your jacket.” Alistair said quietly.</p>
<p>“Psssh” Crowley shrugged, looking down at the floor. He should probably stop kneeling at Alistair’s feet now, but he didn't seem to be moving. Any moment now...</p>
<p>As the silence started getting awkward, Paxton stood up, bundling up the dirty towel. </p>
<p>“Right. Well you’re both staying here tonight. I’ll lend you something to sleep in, and we’ll sort everything else out in the morning.” He picked a wriggly Dog up under one arm, put a guard in front of the dwindling fire, locked the front door, and opened the one behind the bar that led to a narrow staircase. </p>
<p>“Come on, up here. Hot showers and bed for you both.”</p>
<p>Alistair looked at Crowley hesitantly. </p>
<p>“Uh..”</p>
<p>“It’s alright, I know Paxton.” Crowley told him. “He used to help me with my homework.” And he followed Paxton towards the stairs. </p>
<p>“I recall doing most of it by myself!” Paxton scolded from half way up the narrow staircase. </p>
<p>“And you say I’m an angel.” Alistair muttered as he followed him. </p>
<p>After showing them to the spare room, Paxton went to get some fresh towels, pyjamas, and a blanket for Dog to sleep on. </p>
<p>Alistair switched on the lamp on the bedside table and looked around. It was a small room, fairly typical of the age of the building, with a section of the ceiling sloping down along the outside wall. It looked comfortable, the carpets up here more sedate in a rich, deep maroon. Opposite the door was a small, low window, with some chintzy, floral curtains, and down one side of the room was a row of built-in wardrobes, the doors painted white to match the rough white walls. The room wasn't too cold thanks to the radiator on the wall. The problem was, there was only one bed — a simple pine frame that took up most of the small room so sleeping on the floor wasn’t really an option. </p>
<p>Right now, Alistair could think of nothing he wanted more than to curl up with the yawning, bedraggled, devilishly handsome streak of a man slouching heavily against the doorframe, but he didn’t want to push this on him for what was apparently the second night in a row. <em> Goodness, was it really only this morning he’d woken up surrounded by Crowley’s scent?  </em></p>
<p>Paxton returned with two green and blue striped towels, a brown fleece blanket, and some large t-shirts and pyjama trousers.</p>
<p>“Here you go gents. Bathroom is down the hall. There’s an airer in the hall for you to hang your wet clothes on and there should be just enough hot water in the tank for you both.” He handed them the pyjamas. “These might be a bit big for you Anthony but surprisingly enough I don’t keep clothing on hand in your size, although I’m sure if I root around a bit I can probably find one of those old hoodies you used to leave all over the place.” He folded up the blanket and put it on the floor at the end of the bed. “And that’s for you Dog you little scallywag. Now, make yourselves at home chaps, I’m at the end of the hall if you need anything, but I warn you, I’m a heavy sleeper and running a pub means I’m a late riser. Try and get some rest, you two eh?” With a final ruffle of Dog’s ears, Paxton left them to it.</p>
<p>Crowley turned to Alistair, handing him a towel. “You first. Get yourself properly warmed up.”</p>
<p>Crowley waited in the room while Alistair showered. He sat on the floor in the corner with his head in his hands. It had been a train wreck of a day that had started with a stonking hangover which had turned out to be the highlight. Now Crowley was still somewhat drunk again, and so very tired. So very tired of this life of constantly moving, constantly looking for the threat, constantly thinking the worst of everyone. He was feeling ragged from the level of emotion he’d had to process tonight, and he knew he needed to make a change before he ran himself into the ground. He was getting too old for this shit. </p>
<p>He heard a quiet knock on the bedroom door, and it opened slowly. Crowley dragged his hands over his face and looked up to see Alistair enter. He was flushed from the heat of the shower, his hair tousled from being towel dried and he was wearing the pyjamas Paxton had given him — a red t-shirt that skimmed just right over his broad chest and matching tartan patterned trousers, his toes sticking out the ends where the material pooled around his feet. He looked so soft and beautiful it made Crowley’s heart ache just to look at him as he stood there fiddling with the hem of the t-shirt, his eyes tired and shoulders drooping. Alistair had no right looking so blessedly perfect after everything that had happened in the last few hours.  </p>
<p>“Angel…” Crowley whispered, before realising he’d been staring, and thanks to his sunglasses being back in the Mini, it was glaringly obvious too, but he couldn’t look away.</p>
<p>Alistair yawned and Crowley had never wanted so much to just coil himself around someone and never let go. Before he did something stupid, he stood up, grabbed the remaining towel and pyjamas and hurried out the door muttering “back in a sec”. He got a few minutes of hot water before it ran out but he couldn’t really blame Alistair, and frankly, the cold was quite cathartic, not to mention sobering. </p>
<p>He found the airier in the hallway, and after a moment’s thought took it back downstairs to sit in front of the glowing remains of the fire. He spent a few minutes sorting out all the clothes so Alistair’s were closest to the dwindling heat, arranging them all with care and smoothing them down gently, brushing off the dried mud where it had started to flake. It gave his hands something to do while his mind tried to make some sense of the last few hours. Alistair's clothes hanging there so empty gave him a strange feeling that he tried to ignore. </p>
<p>When he got back to the room, swamped in the navy blue t-shirt and holding up the matching striped trousers with one hand, his ankles poking out the bottom and black painted toenails chipped and worn, Alistair was sat at the end of the bed looking lost. </p>
<p>“I, uh, I can go find the sofa, leave you to the bed? Dog will stay with you.” Normally Crowley would have just done it, not even asked, but here he was, making no move to leave, desperately hoping Alistair would say no. Mentally pleading, in fact, with anyone that could hear, that he wouldn’t be sent away. Not tonight. Not after having only just got him back. </p>
<p>“Please don’t.” Alistair said quietly, looking at him with a terrified expression. Crowley nodded, trying to hide his relief, then walked around the bed and slipped under the flowery covers before he thought too much about it. He positioned himself as close to the edge of the bed as he could get without risking falling off, and closed his eyes, gripping his pillow. He desperately wanted to hold onto Alistair with both hands and never let him out of his sight again, but he knew better than to throw all his insecurities on him right now. </p>
<p>Alistair was still dithering. </p>
<p>“Get in Angel.” Crowley said, his voice soft and low. “You’ll get cold again.” </p>
<p>Alistair took a deep breath and climbed in on the other side. Dog had settled on the blanket and was already snoring softly. The mattress dipped and the covers shifted around as Alistair got comfortable, then the light by the bed was turned off, plunging them both into darkness. After a couple of minutes Crowley felt a timid hand on his shoulder. </p>
<p>“Crowley. I…” Alistair murmured quietly and the hand darted away. Crowley rolled over to face him, and realised Alistair was very close. So close that he could feel the warmth radiating off of him. The storm had blown over, leaving a clear sky, and the light from the moon was creeping in under the curtain, casting just enough of a glow that Crowley could see Alistair’s fluffy, pale hair and wide eyes right in front of him, shining in the gloom.<em> Lighting the way home </em>, Crowley thought before berating himself for something so soppy. Must be the whisky. </p>
<p>“What do you need?” Crowley mumbled, his voice filled with the drowsiness of approaching sleep.</p>
<p>“I… well… may I hold your hand?” Alistair asked sheepishly. “So I know you’re there? I’ll feel better knowing... I’m not alone.” <em> Knowing you’re there </em>, he bit back just in time. </p>
<p>Crowley managed to melt and panic all at the same time, but he slid a hand out under the covers towards Alistair, finding his in their customary nervous tangle in front of his chest and slipping into his grasp. Alistair pulled Crowley's hand closer, enveloping it completely with his own and holding on tightly. </p>
<p>“Thank you...” He whispered and Crowley felt some of the tension melt away.</p>
<p>And then he looked up at Alistair’s face again, and he was so close. So close their noses were practically touching and when did that happen? Crowley tried so hard to restrain himself, he tried to remember that this was a line he couldn’t cross. And definitely not twice. But he knew the feel of those lips, he knew exactly how Alistair would tilt his head. He could smell the clean, sweet scent of this angel over the slightly stale smell of the sheets and just a hand was not enough. Right now he wanted nothing more than to be as close to him as physically possible and never let him go, consequences be damned. He gripped the covers tightly in his other hand, his whole body crying out for contact that he wanted so desperately it hurt. He wanted to wrap himself around Alistair and feel the solid presence of this ethereal man, folding himself into it until all the pain went away. But Alistair was not his to have or to hold. He had already fucked up once, he wouldn’t do it ag-</p>
<p>And suddenly there were soft lips pressed firmly against his as Alistair closed the last centimetre or two with swift and sudden determination, and Crowley’s hand was no longer full of floral duvet cover but still damp hair that curled at the nape of a solid neck, and he certainly hadn’t given it permission to do that. He was drowning in the feeling of Alistair’s mouth on his, adrift on the wave of whatever it was that Alistair kept stirring in him, and still it wasn’t enough. He needed more, he needed to feel whole again, he needed-</p>
<p>Alistair rolled him onto his back and shifted over him to press him down into the mattress without breaking the kiss, a strong hand sliding around his waist to hold him so tenderly. </p>
<p>That. He needed that. Alistair pulled their bodies together, and he was oh so warm through the thin cotton of their t-shirts, the weight of his body providing a bone-deep grounding force that Crowley was desperate for.</p>
<p>Crowley knew he shouldn’t, he knew it would only make things messier, but Alistair seemed to need this as much as he did and surely these were extenuating circumstances. As the pyjamas ended up back on the floor and they both clung to each other it felt like, here, in this surreal, secluded bubble with just the two of them, the normal rules just didn’t seem to apply. <em> Guidelines... </em></p>
<p>This time there was no banter, no bravado, just two hearts sharing one rhythm as their bodies blended into one another in the quiet moonlight, beating out a harmony that sang <em> ‘Never let me go.’ </em></p>
<p>Sleep came eventually, curling up around each other, and although both were disturbed by nightmares of fire, of running, screaming, into a room of flames, of stumbling through wet trees in endless dark, calling out with no answer… a slight squeeze of the hands that had returned to clasp together between them was enough to reassure them that, yes, it was over. They were still here, they were OK. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Alistair woke up with a start, confusion mounting as he waited for his brain to sort dream from reality (it didn’t help that waking up naked next to Crowley had been a recurring feature in his dreams for a while now). The sun was up, peeking through a gap in the curtains and leaving a thin wedge of light on the opposite wall. </p>
<p>They’d stayed close in the night and he was now curled up against Crowley’s chest, head tucked under his chin. Their hands still clasped together in between the press of their bodies, Crowley’s other arm was draped over him, which just begged the question of what was shoved so firmly into his back? A snuffling sound suggested it was Dog, who had apparently jumped up onto the bed in the night the little scamp. With Alistair’s stocky legs tangled with Crowley’s lean ones he was completely stuck, and overwhelmingly fine with it as he soaked up the feeling of Crowley’s bare skin pressed against his own, his shoulder rising and falling in the corner of his vision with every breath. He was alive. He was warm, he was dry, and as long as he was with Crowley, he was safe. He had a brief spike of fear when he thought of Eric, but he figured he knew the terrain far better than Alistair did, and was probably holed up in the National Trust centre at the top of the valley. He had a key so it made a logical place for him to go. Alistair snuggled a little closer and tried to pretend he hadn’t woken up. For the first time he could remember, he didn’t want the day to start just yet. </p>
<p>Unbeknownst to him, Crowley was having much the same thought above him. He had woken up a little earlier and couldn’t bring himself to let go just yet. He still felt too raw from believing he’d lost Alistair, too dazed from the shock of returning to what he’d quickly learned was his worst nightmare to think past the need to hold on to him for as long as possible. He was rapidly coming to the realisation that perhaps this mess of feelings might run a bit deeper than he’d thought. The way he felt when he held Alistair like this was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It was all encompassing, a feeling of completeness like there was a gap he hadn’t even known he’d had until Alistair fitted so perfectly into it, pulling the rest of him into a shape it felt like he was meant to be. When he was with Alistair he liked himself a bit more. He liked the person he became even though he was mostly just being himself a bit more than normal. The sun shone a bit brighter when Alistair was around, everyone seemed a bit nicer and life just had a bit more meaning to it. Everywhere he went he saw things that reminded him of his fussy charge. He was always in the back of Crowley’s mind, like a guardian angel. All that stereotypical shit that people said on the TV when they talked about lo… </p>
<p>Crowley forgot to breathe for an unknown number of moments. </p>
<p>Oh bloody hell. When they talked about <em> love </em>. The realisation hit him like the proverbial freight train and he tried to breathe slowly through his nose. The room spun slightly, but that could well just be the hangover starting.</p>
<p>In love. He bloody was, wasn’t he? Holy fuck, that’s what all this was... all those times his chest had been doing strange things, the way he’d forget basic training when Alistair was in danger, Christ even all that soft-focus nonsense... He was in love. Shit, even all those times they’d asked him if he’d ever been in love and he said no and now, for the first time in his life, he was. He had fallen head over heels in love, and with Alistair. Good god had they all seen it before him? He hadn't meant to get involved, and he’d certainly never meant to fall in love. </p>
<p>Jesus Fucking Chrysanthemums, could this get any messier?</p>
<p>Dog stirred, puncturing their quiet little bubble by embarking on a crusade of licking and trampling with the aim of rousing one or both of them to let him out for a wee. Crowley recognised the signs (<em> So you can tell when Dog needs a wee, but can’t spot yourself falling in love you idiot... </em>) and gently untangled himself from Alistair. He pulled back on the first pair of pyjama trousers he could reach (Alistair’s tartan ones which clashed terribly with his hair) as Dog jumped off the bed and went to sit by the door, whining. They went downstairs and Crowley let him out the back door into the little garden area that overlooked the valley. After a few moments of pacing in the cold bar, wondering how the fuck he’d missed the fact that he was in love for so long (how long even was it), he heard Dog scrabble at the door to be let back in. Crowley followed him as he ran straight back up the stairs and found him back on the bed, curled up next to Alistair in the space where Crowley had been. Dog turned his best puppy dog eyes on him as he stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame, arms crossed over his bare chest. </p>
<p>“Oh I see. Is that how this works then?” He said to Dog quietly. “You get me up so you can steal my spot, you devious little bastard?”</p>
<p>“Your spot? Crowley, are you getting jealous of a dog?” Alistair asked sleepily, lifting his head to give him a look that seemed to know far too much, and Crowley couldn’t help but utterly adore the way his curls were sticking up all over the place. <em>H</em> <em> ow the fuck did I not see it…  </em></p>
<p>“Wha? No… I… Just… ’S cold. Didn’t know you were awake…” Crowley shrugged, panicking slightly and overanalysing everything in the light of his revelation.<em> Does HE know!?  </em></p>
<p>Alistair nudged Dog over to the edge of the bed and shuffled into the middle to make a space on the other side, motioning for Crowley to get in. He did, but only because he was cold, and not for any other totally unprofessional reason. They lay on their backs, side by side, Alistair's arm around Dog where he was pressed up against his ribs, wiry black and white head resting on Alistair’s chest. He stroked Dog’s head absentmindedly. </p>
<p>“Alistair, listen, I…” Crowley started, hating what he was about to say.</p>
<p>Alistair sighed. “Morning. I know.” He said, the resignation evident in his voice. Last night had been his fault. In his moment of weakness while they were hidden away from the real world together he had taken advantage of Crowley, but in the cold light of day he knew he couldn’t ask him to do anything that put his life in danger. Even if it chipped away at his heart every time. He’d been so hopeful when they thought it was all over, but now they were back to square one and it was all Alistair could do not to tear his hair out in frustration. </p>
<p>“How long are we going to do this, Crowley?” He asked. Crowley had to turn his face away. </p>
<p>“Until you’re no longer in danger.” Crowley replied, keeping his voice as level as possible.</p>
<p>“And then what?” Alistair demanded.</p>
<p>“I... don’t know.” Crowley responded. He had no idea how this would end and whether he would have to do something that Alistair would never be able to forgive him for in the process. His methods may be effective, but they weren’t exactly nice, and thus far Alistair had been spared from seeing the dirtier side of his job. Alistair may not like what he finds there when push comes to shove and Crowley has to make a snap decision. </p>
<p>After a long pause, Alistair sighed again. </p>
<p>“We should call Pepper.” </p>
<p>“Shit, yeah, we should.” Crowley agreed. </p>
<p>“She’ll be angry.” </p>
<p>“She will.”</p>
<p>“She’ll make us go home.”</p>
<p>“Probably.” Crowley said, and Alistair wasn’t sure if he actually heard the touch of disappointment in Crowley’s tone, or if he just wanted to hear it. </p>
<p>“I suppose this means the man the police have is not the one trying to hurt me then.” Alistair pointed out. </p>
<p>“He’s definitely responsible for those letters, but it looks like that’s it, yeah.”</p>
<p>“Crowley?” Alistair turned his head to face him, and waited for Crowley to look at him before he spoke again. “You will stay, won’t you? Until we catch the right person? Until this is all over?”</p>
<p>“I’ll stay for as long as you want me Angel.” Crowley said gently, mentally wincing at the brutal honesty of what his statement laid bare. </p>
<p>Suddenly Dog’s head jerked upwards, ears pointing forwards, senses trained on the door. Alistair jumped at the sudden movement and flung a hand out at Crowley and in his panic his hand landed on Crowley’s hip. Crowley froze, stifling his own alarm at the sudden contact. <em> Had Alistair’s touch always felt like this?! </em>Dog jumped down from the bed and Alistair’s hand tightened, his fingers digging into the flesh around Crowley’s hip bone as they heard heavy footsteps thud past in the corridor outside.</p>
<p>“Nguh” Crowley grunted. Alistair turned his wide-eyed face towards him. </p>
<p>“'Sss just Paxton getting up Angel. You’re fine.” Crowley forced out through gritted teeth. </p>
<p>“Oh! Oh how silly of me, of course. Oh, I’m sorry my dear, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Alistair released his grip, his hand lingering indecisively for a moment before he drew it back. </p>
<p>Crowley swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and let the momentum carry his torso up. Alistair sat up in the bed and looked at Dog, who whined at him and shuffled closer to the door, obviously hinting at something.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, alright. I suppose it probably is time to get up. Come on you.” Alistair said to him as he got out of the bed, pulled on the navy pyjamas and took him downstairs in search of breakfast. </p>
<p>Crowley took a few deep breaths. This was getting way out of hand. He should never have fallen in love. He resolved to find out what the firefighters had to say, then they would head back to London. Being down here now had no benefits seeing as it was compromised (and he would have to get to the bottom of that), and at least in London he could attempt to keep some distance between them.</p>
<p>Crowley meandered down to the bar area downstairs, the fire re-lit and the guard in front to protect the clothes, and discovered that Paxton had indeed managed to find one of his old black-on-black GAP hoodies. He pulled it on over the baggy t-shirt, resolving not to ask why Paxton still had it in case he got an answer, when there was a frantic banging on the door. Paxton was busy in the kitchen cooking eggs judging by the noises, so Crowley answered the door </p>
<p>“Ah. Pepper. Listen-” Crowley had been expecting anger, an explosive telling off. He hadn’t been expecting the raw fear on her face. He certainly hadn't expected her to bury her face in his chest and bust into tears as she flung her arms around him. </p>
<p>“I heard about it on the radio and I drove over and the house is swarming with firefighters and people in white suits and I couldn’t find you and they said you were here and… and… Crowley they’re looking for bodies!” She wailed into his chest. Crowley carefully put an arm around her and manoeuvred them into the warmth of the pub so he could shut the door. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry we didn’t call, I was just about to though, to be fair.” He said quietly to the top of her head, hugging her back.</p>
<p>“We?!” She looked up at him with such fierce hope that it nearly broke his heart again. </p>
<p>“C’mon.” He said, pulling away gently and leading her to the tables around the corner by the kitchen. Pepper hastily wiped her eyes on her coat sleeve and followed after him, still gasping back sobs. As they rounded the corner she saw Alistair sat at a table, cup of tea in hand, chatting to Dog who was looking up at him adoringly again in case it got him another treat. Pepper choked out a sound that might have been a cry, but could equally have been a relieved laugh. Either way it made Alistair turn in her direction, his expression turning decidedly sheepish. Dog bounded over, jumping up to greet her, tail wagging. </p>
<p>Alistair put his tea cup down gently, and stood up as she approached, steeling himself for the outraged onslaught he knew was coming. </p>
<p>“What the HELL do you think you’re playing at scaring me like that?!” She shouted, trembling as she stood before him, gesticulating wildly. Paxton poked his head out of the kitchen at the noise, ducking back out of sight again following a discreet shake of Crowley’s head. </p>
<p>“You persist in keeping us all in the dark! This is the second time you haven’t called me when something has happened! The bloody house burnt down Alistair, I thought you were <em> dead! </em> Do you understand? Dead! You are going to need to do something monumental to make up for this you… you… what are you even wearing?!” She finished, scowling at them both, panting from the exertion of her emotions. Dog was gazing back and forth between them on the basis that someone would give him a treat eventually. Alistair merely spread his arms wide and gave her a Look. She resisted for a moment, but sank herself into his embrace and held on tight as a fresh round of sobs burst forth. </p>
<p>“I hate you.” She said as he planted a kiss on the top of her head.</p>
<p>“I love you too my dear. I’m sorry we didn’t call. I wasn’t allowed to bring my phone, remember? And the land line was not an option as I was in rather a hurry when I left the house, as you can imagine. It’s only thanks to Dog that I ended up finding my way here at all, rather than staying lost on the Downs all night.”</p>
<p>“Where’s Eric?” She asked suddenly, the sound of panic rising in her voice. “Is he here too? Where is he?”</p>
<p>Crowley was leaning against one of the dark wooden timbers that formed the edge of the door frame, hands tucked in the hoody’s pocket, resolutely not acknowledging the way his heart clenched as Alistair told Pepper he loved her. Too. Messy.</p>
<p>“We don’t know.” He said, frowning. “He knows his way around this area better than anyone, but I am somewhat concerned we’ve not heard anything from him yet.” </p>
<p>The kitchen door opened and Paxton brought out a spectacular amount of food. After introductions Pepper took off her coat and they all sat down and tucked in. Once they’d judged the clothes to be dry enough, Alistair and Crowley got dressed again and piled into the back of the Bentley so Pepper could drive them back over to the house, leaving Dog with Paxton. It wasn’t ideal with Alistair lacking proper footwear (Paxton’s feet were too big to borrow anything), but Crowley wasn’t about to leave him behind again. As the remains of the burnt out house came into view, Alistair grabbed Crowley’s arm. It was a devastating sight. Blackened from smoke, what hadn’t burned was waterlogged from the rain and the hoses. The forensic team were just filing out.</p>
<p>“Leave it to me.” Crowley said gently. The place was swarming with people in uniform, he reasoned, Alistair was about as safe as he could get here. And it was warmer in the car. </p>
<p>Alistair nodded. Pepper had wisely parked a little distance away so they couldn’t hear anything that might upset him. Crowley got out and walked over to the Mini to retrieve his sunglasses, before approaching the group of people that appeared to be running the show, some of his swagger returning with the application of dark glass. He had a short conversation with them, pointing to Alistair in the car at one point, then nodding as they pointed to a pile of what looked like salvaged personal items, his expression undecipherable behind the sunglasses again. Alistair looked at him standing there in yesterday’s ruined clothes, looking tired, but determined. He knew that, in theory, it was Crowley’s job to handle difficult and dangerous situations, but seeing it in practise was proving more difficult to stomach. He’d caused this, he’d brought this destruction to Crowley’s home. Crowley didn’t deserve this, Eric and Dog didn’t deserve this. Alistair realised that they would never be able to outrun this — <em> he </em> would never be able to outrun this. Hiding didn’t work, so now he needed to get back out there and face this head on.</p>
<p>Crowley returned to the Bentley and climbed into the back. </p>
<p>“They found Eric.” He said looking at his hands, his voice strained and small.</p>
<p>“Oh! Where was he? Was he up at the centre?” Alistair asked, a forced brightness to his words, trying to ignore the answer he’d already heard in Crowley’s voice, seen in his slumped shoulders and thin-pressed lips. </p>
<p>“He was by the front door. He didn’t make it out.” Crowley turned his face to look out of the window. He didn’t mention the other details the police forensic team had given him from what little they could get from Eric’s burnt remains. They could tell it had been up close and personal, but they’d have to wait for the post mortem to find out exactly what the weapon had been. <em> At least he didn’t suffer... </em></p>
<p>“Oh Crowley, I’m so sorry.” Alistair put his hand over Crowley’s, and Crowley turned it over and interlaced their fingers, holding on for dear life. </p>
<p>“He never stood a chance. They’ve found evidence of arson, so they are treating it as murder scene.” He said, his voice oddly flat. “They want to take statements which I told them we could do back at the pub, and then I suggest we go back to London if that’s alright with you. Get you some clean clothes.”</p>
<p>Back in the warmth of the pub the police questioned all four of them then made some phone calls to corroborate their stories (particularly in Crowley’s case, after what they found in where his room had been). They even had a look at Dog. They wanted to know what Alistair had seen and heard before he escaped, if he’d smelled anything unusual, anything at all that might help them with their case. He had been in the kitchen at the time. Eric was bringing plates back from the dining room and all Alistair remembered was a strange smokey smell, and Eric shouting at him to run, so he did. After several hours the police were satisfied they’d got all they could, and they let the three of them go with a crime number and strict instructions that they call if anything else came up. </p>
<p>Paxton promised to look after Dog and sort out the stuff salvaged from the house, and sent them away with snacks for the journey in a beige tartan tin (“see Crowley, it is stylish”), an open invitation to return at any time, and a bone-crushing hug for each of them that somehow managed to reach right down to the soul. Crowley blushed as Paxton muttered "he's a good one, don't balls it up" in his ear as they left. </p>
<p>By the time they got back to Soho it was dark. After changing into clean clothes, Alistair and Crowley sat down with Anathema, Tracy, Michael, and Uriel, and explained what had happened. Anathema was horrified, and Tracy and Uriel were furious. Michael didn’t say a word, but looked very pale.</p>
<p>“So we’re back to square one?!” Uriel exclaimed. </p>
<p>Dinner that night was subdued, and talk began to form a plan for the awards ceremony that would be happening in a few weeks’ time. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley sat on the small sofa in his room with a large glass of whisky and let the events of the last twenty-four hours catch up with him. He allowed himself one drink, and one night to mourn, for now. He still had a job to do and that had to come first, no matter what else he had going on. He swilled the amber liquid around in the glass, watching the light from the bedside lamp shift and sway on the surface of the drink, watched it glint and shine in the facets of the cut crystal, the reflections dancing across his hand, and he thought of flames. Of the way they flowed and spread as they hungrily ate up his house. Not his home though, not since… since that night. That night when he was too young and his whole fragile world shattered in screams and crashes and falling. He’d hidden away from the noise, peered out of the window fascinated by the blue lights, and watched as she was taken away.</p>
<p>He didn’t know it was her at the time. The bag had been zipped up.</p>
<p>It had taken a long time for him to be confident on the stairs again, and Sam had tried, but he was just as lost without her and while Crowley had been disconsolate and scared, Sam had been angry. Angry that she had been taken from the world, from him. And he never got past that anger.</p>
<p>Crowley hadn’t even known where her grave was until long after Sam was gone and he’d found the paperwork by accident. And even then it was a while before he could get the courage to go and see her, but Raphael had insisted, almost ordering him to take a day off to go. He had been a very persuasive man, and in the end it had cost him his life. Crowley stopped sharing after that. </p>
<p>Eric had been found in that same hallway, at the bottom of those stairs, where he never should have been. Another life taken too soon. Another beautiful, vibrant flame in this dark world that burned too bright and couldn’t last. One soul, born to three bodies, Crowley wondered if Eric’s long-lost brothers were still out there somewhere and if they felt the loss as part of their shared soul broke free and moved on to whatever afterlife Eric believed in. Crowley realised he probably should have asked. Should have taken more of an interest in what Eric wanted to happen next. Eric had undoubtedly given his life for Alistair, and he owed him that much at least. In a silent salute to his fallen half-brother, Crowley raised his glass, then downed the rest of his drink and crawled into bed, hiding deep under the covers. Tomorrow he had a job to do and all the grief, all the fear, would have to be locked away, but tonight… tonight the box was wide open and he would feel it all. He fell asleep eventually, coiled in on himself, the pillow under his face wet with salty tears for another life lost on his watch. </p>
<p>The next morning he pulled himself together, pushing all the grief back down and shutting the lid on it. There was work to do, and it would start with getting out his laptop and looking up the hotel where the awards ceremony was to be held. He grimaced. An old building meant thick walls that blocked signal, narrow doorways, and a layout that might as well have been designed purposefully to hide threats and confound swift exits. He got out a notebook and began to plan, hastily scrawling down ideas and information in a handwriting that looked more like a spider got drunk, fell into some ink, and tried to waltz. He spent the day scribbling, only pausing when Tracy appeared with some lunch. The more he worked, the more he planned and occupied his brain, the less he would be able to think. <em> Distance.  </em></p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The following night, Alistair was sat on his bed, staring blankly at his hands. He’d not slept the night before, too scared of the darkness outside and the flames he saw every time he closed his eyes. He’d gone nights without sleeping in the past, but usually it was when the deadline was looming and he’d had a streak of inspiration to power him through. Unable to face another long night staring, terrified, at his own walls he sought solace in the one place he felt most at peace — his library. It had been a place of comfort for him when it was all in his bookshop, and now it was within his home it had become his sanctuary. He strolled through the shelves, wondering what to select to distract himself with. It was close to midnight, and the others were all in bed, or at least in their own rooms, so he had the library to himself. </p>
<p>Except, he didn’t. There was a light on, and he could hear muffled noises that suggested a presence. He walked quietly over to the fireplace and picked up the poker, holding it to his side as he crept round to the source of the noise. It was coming from near his Chesterfield sofa. Stepping smartly round he brought the poker up, intent on confronting the intruder, but instead he was grabbed roughly from behind and a blade pressed into his neck. In his shock he dropped the poker with a loud clang, eliciting a hiss from behind his left ear. Alistair was terrified. Whoever had burned the house in the South Downs was clearly back to finish the job. In his panic he could only think of Crowley, hoping that, with his pin lost to the fire, he’d heard the clang of the poker and would come racing in to save the day, again. </p>
<p>“<em> Fuck </em>, Alistair! What did I say about sneaking up on me?!”</p>
<p>The blade was swiftly removed and the arm around his torso retreated, the touch lingering as it drifted down his arm with the lightest brush of fingertips over his hand. Alistair let out the breath he’d been holding and readjusted his robe. Crowley walked around him, flicking the slim knife closed again before slipping it into his back pocket and unceremoniously dumping himself onto the sofa, limbs haphazardly abandoned where they fell. He tipped his head back and pushed his sunglasses onto his head so he could rub his hands down over his face with a groan.</p>
<p>“Jesus Christ, you walk like a bloody assassin. If it weren’t for that damned poker I’d never have known you were there.” Crowley looked up at Alistair who was still standing by the doorway, his face as pale as his hair. He had one hand on his throat, absentmindedly rubbing where the blade had touched. </p>
<p>“Hey, you ok?” Crowley asked, fighting the urge to sweep him up into his arms and hold him as close as he could until this all went away. He knew he hadn’t drawn blood but he still wanted to wrench Alistair’s hands away, check the pale skin of his neck, banish the memory of the cold steel that sat there by covering the area with his mouth. He knew how it would taste, how it would feel when the pulse that lived there would jump under his tongue. He could remember the sounds that he could drag out of that throat, still feel the vibration of them on his lips. Crowley’s hands were holding tight to the sofa where they’d dropped, in an effort to anchor himself there. </p>
<p>Alistair blinked and looked at Crowley. He’d been deep inside his own thoughts as the terror gave way to relief. He wanted to throw himself across the low table and bury himself in Crowley’s shoulder, drown in those enchanting eyes until he forgot all the horrors of his life right now. </p>
<p>“Sorry, I… I couldn’t sleep. I came to get a book and... I suppose I wasn’t expecting anyone else in here.” Alistair said quietly, twining his fingers with each other rather than let them reach out and run through that hair that glowed like a dying star. It felt so right, Crowley being here in his most sacred space. The night time had always felt like Alistair’s private world in his library, and far from an intruder, Crowley, with his impossibly tight jeans and jacket so sharply tailored it made you rethink the phrase ‘dressed to kill’, made it feel complete. Alistair realised he had two ordeals to get through now. He had to survive this primary threat, this madman out to harm him and anyone in the way, and when it was all over and he was safe he had to survive watching Crowley saunter away and out of his life. </p>
<p>“Crowley,” Alister began tentatively, “Would you… could you… if it’s not too much to ask…” Crowley raised one eyebrow at him, and Alistair lost his nerve. “Oh, never mind.”</p>
<p>“What is it Angel?” Crowley asked softly. And Alistair crumbled. He looked down at his feet. </p>
<p>“Stay with me?”</p>
<p>Crowley sat up. <em> Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, dear God yes. </em> “You mean, tonight?”</p>
<p>“Er… yes. I can’t sleep. I was so afraid just thinking about it.” <em> Yes, tonight, tomorrow, all the tomorrows. Just stay. </em> “It’s less scary when you’re there. Please, just sit with me while I fall asleep? Please don’t leave me alone.” <em> Please don’t leave at all… </em>Alistair couldn’t look up. Couldn’t face those intense honey coloured eyes, but he felt them on him, studying him where he stood in his pale blue pyjamas and beige robe, evaluating him with all his flaws and shortcomings, boring into his soul. He braced for the inevitable rejection. Crowley didn’t want this. Didn’t want him. </p>
<p>“I don't think that’s a good idea Alistair, I’m sorry. You’re safe here, you don’t need me watching you in the house.” Crowley wanted to, shit he wanted to go up there and hold Alistair as he drifted off to sleep more than anything right now, but he knew it would only make things worse in the long run. He looked at his feet. He knew he couldn’t say no to Alistair’s face, and the line had to be drawn somewhere. He had to make an attempt to be professional. </p>
<p>"It should have been me." Alistair said so quietly Crowley nearly missed it. "It was nothing to do with Eric, it should have been me."</p>
<p>"Oh no you don't Alistair. You can't let yourself think like that, you'll go mad." Crowley said, coming to stand in front of him. "You can't change what happened, and Eric's death is not your responsibility. That belongs solely to the twat that lit that fire, d'you hear?" <em>And the twat that wasn't there when he should have been... </em></p>
<p>Alistair nodded slightly, his hands doing their customary nervous dance over his chest. </p>
<p>“How do you do it Crowley, how do you sleep after something like this? How do you not go mad staring at the walls all night?” Alistair sounded so broken that Crowley nearly caved in. </p>
<p>“I usually just focus on my heartbeat and breathing and bore myself to sleep. But you’re a storyteller right? Change the narrative. Focus on the what is, not the ’what ifs’. Can’t change what happened, just how you look at it. And what you choose to do next.” Crowley shrugged, still not looking at Alistair. “Or failing that, watch a film that you’ve seen a million times. Or I suppose in your case read a book.”</p>
<p>Alistair gave him a weak smile.</p>
<p>“Anyway, g’night.” Crowley said, standing up and walking out through the nearest door without looking back in case he lost his nerve. Why did doing the right thing always have to hurt so fucking much?</p>
<p>Alistair sighed as he picked up a second edition Winnie the Pooh. He knew Crowley had been right. It wasn’t a good idea, he knew that, but it still stung hearing the rejection. That gentle nudge that said Crowley hadn’t chosen him. Despite it all, despite everything that had happened in the last week, the way he’d found him in the pub, the night they’d shared together that was about so much more than chasing an orgasm, despite all that, Crowley wouldn’t choose him. </p>
<p>And no amount of ‘changing the narrative’ could stop that from hurting. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>EEEEERIIIIIC! Ugh. Go on, shout at me in the comments, I deserve it. At least he died a hero.</p>
<p>Alistair is probably going to need some help after all this. Crowley is not a therapist, so his advice is obviously not professional advice. </p>
<p>Look after yourselves lovelies, I promise the next chapter is a bit lighter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. The Calm Before the Storm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the calm before the storm here folks, enjoy it while it lasts.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Late the next morning Crowley made his way into the kitchen, yawning. </p><p>“Ah. You’re up. Good. Sleep well?” Michael asked as he entered, looking him over critically. </p><p>“Mnh.” He grunted. It was too close to waking and too far from coffee to be trying to work out complicated things like why Michael was suddenly striking up conversations with him.</p><p>Crowley jabbed the button on the coffee machine, plonking the black mug under the machine’s spout. He then stuffed a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and turned around to lean on the worktop to wait. He’d slept poorly, going over and over his late night conversation with Alistair, trying to work out if he’d done the right thing and come up blank. </p><p>Michael looked like she wanted to say something, her face uncharacteristically troubled, lips pursed, but before she could seem to find the right words the toaster spat the toast up and startled her. Coffee mug firmly in one hand, hot toast loosely in the other, Crowley nodded at her on his way past as he went out of the door towards the dining room. </p><p>Alistair and Tracy were in the dining room chatting over a cup of tea. Crowley very deliberately sat down opposite them even as Alistair glanced at the empty seat next to him, tossing his toast onto the table as he took his first slurp of coffee.</p><p>“Ah! You’ve emerged from the depths. Heard you two up late. Rough night was it?” Tracy teased, a mischievous glint in her eye and a lilt to her voice that wouldn’t be out of place on a young Barbara Windsor. Alistair choked on his tea.</p><p>“No more than can be expected.” Crowley said airily, completely ignoring Alistair’s outburst as he waited for the precious coffee to work its magic on his sluggish brain. Apparently everyone was being weird this morning then. </p><p>“Oh really, Alistair, you must learn to swallow properly. You’re not a fish!” Tracy scolded. Crowley raised an eyebrow at the mildly indignant look on Alistair’s face. </p><p>“So. What’re we up to today?” Crowley asked through a mouthful of toast as he felt the first inklings of caffeine-induced lucidity. </p><p>“Well, we were thinking it’s about time to get you two out of those clothes,” Alistair nearly dropped his cup. The conversation abruptly caught up with Crowley and he shut down his expression as he gained some insight into Alistair’s behaviour. “And into something a bit… smarter. More up to date.” She said, glancing sideways at Alistair. “Michael’s idea. So we’re going to head down to Savile Row and let them give you the once over. Have you looking ravishing for the big day.” She smiled at them both. Alistair was studying his tea rather intently, and Crowley had one eyebrow raised, looking back at her. The crafty old bird had to know what she was saying. </p><p>“You mean the awards ceremony?” Crowley asked.</p><p>“Yes, whatever else could I mean?” She responded, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. “You both need to look your best, and there’s nothing better on a man than a well fitting suit.” She said firmly. </p><p>“Oh I’m sure you can think of a few things.” Crowley teased her, watching Alistair’s face from behind his sunglasses as it gradually turned a rather fetchingly deep shade of pink, all traces of last night’s anguish gone. The buzz he felt from that left the coffee for dead. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Savile Row wasn’t far from Soho, but with public transport declared a no-go and the cold spring weather’s propensity to suddenly and without any warning absolutely chuck it down, Pepper drove them. Tracy came along as well to cast an expert eye over the proceedings. Or at least that’s what she said. </p><p>“Anathema made you an appointment at ‘Ozwald Boateng’.” Tracy said. “Ah! There it is!” </p><p>Pepper pulled up into the loading bay in front of the stone building on the corner, and Tracy, Alistair and Crowley all piled out, making their way inside while Pepper looked for somewhere to park the car. </p><p>The interior of the shop set a bold precedent, split into two distinct halves with plum dominating at the front and black taking over at the rear. The front half of the shop was plum carpet, plum coloured walls, even a plum coloured ceiling. There were shirts and ties neatly folded and aesthetically arranged in glossy, glass topped, plum coloured display cases, with light coloured suits hanging on the wall. Towards the back was black tiled floor, black ceiling and black box shelves on the wall with vibrant, multicoloured shirts on them, interspersed with larger gaps housing brightly coloured suit jackets on minimalist display hangers beneath spot lighting. The two sides fronting onto the pavement were large, black framed windows with elegantly dressed mannequins breaking up the sunlight as it filtered through. It was sleek, it was bold, it was minimal. It was so very, very Crowley. </p><p>They were greeted at the front of the shop by an assistant in black trousers and a plum coloured shirt with matching tie, who promptly led them down a corridor set entirely with mirrors down one side and plain black cupboards on the other, to the private fitting room tucked away at the back. It was another pared back space although the colour palette here was more traditional and it had significantly better lighting. It felt luxurious, evocative of a parlour or smoking lounge, the sort of place a modern, stylish, and successful gentleman might congregate with his peers. </p><p>Hidden behind a rich, brown curtain and flanked by floor length mirrors was a large changing area. The walls were modern wood-grain paneling and a small, round plinth rose out of the centre of the thick carpet the colour of polished oak. Near the door was a familiar, nut-brown Chesterfield sofa  and coffee table which Crowley gravitated to, sprawling on it as if he owned it, leather creaking and huffing in protest as the cushions adapted to his shape. Alistair couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of him, all drama and grace and style as if he were a model on a fashion shoot. He looked so effortlessly at home and Alistair felt so uncomfortably out of place. Tracy swanned in, layers of chiffon skirt billowing around her as she commanded the space. She calmly nudged Crowley’s knee aside and perched on the other end of the sofa, clutching her handbag on her lap and waiting expectantly. </p><p>“Can I offer anyone anything to drink?” The assistant asked.</p><p>“Ooh a nice cup of tea would be lovely, thank you dearie.” Tracy said, batting her eyelashes at the young man. </p><p>“Cranberry juice.” Crowley said, barely even turning his head. </p><p>Alistair’s turn, and he couldn’t think of what to ask for. He felt so self conscious standing there, he just didn’t fit in here at all. Anyone who owned a shop like this would surely not be able to dress him in a way he would like. It was horribly uncomfortable. </p><p>“Perhaps some water, sir?”</p><p>Alistair looked desperately at the young man and managed a nod. </p><p>And then all of a sudden a striking middle-aged man came striding out of a door so well hidden that it was indistinguishable from the surrounding wall unless you knew where to look, a tape measure around his neck and a twinkle in his eye. Another assistant in plum followed close behind. The man was tall, slim, dark skinned, completely bald, and immaculately presented in a vibrant teal suit and white shirt. He carried himself with an air of profound confidence that came with not only knowing you were very good at what you did, but that you looked good doing it too. He had an incredible presence, something Alistair had never felt he’d possessed. </p><p>“Crowley!” He said, face breaking into a huge grin as he saw Crowley sprawled on the sofa. “So good to see you again!”</p><p>“Ozwald.” Crowley greeted him with a lazy wave and a small smile. <em> Of course he’s been here before, </em> Alistair thought, trying to ignore the pang of jealousy.</p><p>“And that must make you the esteemed Mr. Fell.” He said, turning to Alistair and looking him over professionally as he shook his hand. It was a confident grasp. </p><p>“Alistair.” He blurted out, trying not to feel intimidated as he straightened out his waistcoat. </p><p>“Alistair, wonderful. Welcome Alistair! As you’ve no doubt guessed I am Ozwald, at your service. You were very lucky that there was a cancellation and I was able to fit you gentlemen in so last minute! Now, who might this delightful young lady be?” Ozwald said, turning his charm towards Tracy.</p><p>“Oh my!” Her flustered tone elicited a raised eyebrow from Crowley. “Tracy will do nicely, thank you.” She patted her hair, and smiled. </p><p>“Wonderful! Now, Alistair, shall we start with you?”</p><p>The first assistant came back and put their drinks on the coffee table, and the measuring began. Alistair was instructed to remove his jacket and waistcoat (Crowley tried not to dwell on the suspenders and failed) and stand on the low plinth while Ozwald flitted around him, holding the tape measure up with a featherlight touch and reading out numbers to his assistant who was furiously scribbling on his pad. Noticing Alistair’s wince, Ozwald conveyed the remaining measurements far more quietly. Alistair knew he was a little larger than he should be, he didn’t need the reminder. He certainly didn’t need Crowley to get the reminder.</p><p>Crowley watched from behind his sunglasses as Ozwald pressed the tape measure gently onto Alistair’s body, highlighting every curve, every place he went in or out. It was mesmerising, and he couldn’t look away. He was half contemplating if it was weird to offer to hold the other end of the tape, when a rack of light coloured suits appeared. Due to the short time frame they would be tailoring a suit rather than starting from scratch, so Alistair was ushered away behind the curtain by an assistant with an arm full of potentials. Pepper arrived, grumpy with London parking restrictions, and Tracy filled her in as she perched on the arm of the sofa. Crowley was starting to fidget, the whispering from behind the curtain putting him on edge, when suddenly Ozwald emerged looking very pleased with himself as the assistant held back the curtain. Alistair stepped shyly out, his face filled with apprehension. </p><p>Tracy gasped, her hand coming up onto her chest, and Crowley’s jaw dropped. The suit was a three piece in a soft, dove grey, with the palest blue buttons and slightly wider lapels that angled slightly downward, emphasising Alistair’s broad shoulders. The suit fabric itself was cashmere, giving it a lovely soft matte feel, the effect deepened by the Oxford cotton texture of the white shirt underneath. Ozwald had pinned the jacket to his body shape so it skimmed where it needed to skim, and hugged where it wanted to hug. The subtle sheen of the sky blue, silk bow tie and handkerchief against the gentle grey of the suit set Alistair’s eyes off beautifully, making them seem impossibly blue against his cloud of white blond hair. The whole effect was… heavenly. Crowley could feel his hands tingling with the desire to touch, to run his hands all over that luxurious texture, to gather it all up and smother himself in it. He wanted to wrap himself around all that wonderful softness, feeling the fabric against his naked skin. Ozwald and his assistant stood to one side, whispering between themselves and gesturing to Alistair, the assistant scribbling notes constantly. </p><p>“Hey, you scrub up well Mr. F.” Pepper said, smiling, as she put one finger down and closed Crowley’s jaw.</p><p>“Oh, do you think so?” He asked nervously, fingers twisting his signet ring as he looked down at himself. </p><p>“You look fantastic Alistair.” Tracy followed up. “It’s so… you!”</p><p>Alistair looked nervously at Crowley, trying to gauge the reaction behind those damned sunglasses. </p><p>“What do you think?” Alistair asked him. </p><p>Crowley didn’t. Hadn’t managed a coherent thought since Alistair stepped out. Crowley would swear he was glowing gently. After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Pepper prodded him. </p><p>“I think you broke him Alistair.” She joked. </p><p>“Oh dear.” Alistair said, his expression turning to disappointment. He began to pat the suit down. “Perhaps I’d better try something else…” He turned to go back to the changing room.</p><p>“NO!” </p><p>Alistair flinched and Crowley swallowed thickly. “I mean, uh, no. Don’t change a thing. You look amazing.” Crowley managed to slouch even more and looked away, leg jittering as he sipped his cranberry juice. It was going to be a while before he could get the vision of Alistair in that mesmerising suit out of his head, and stop imagining how it would feel against every inch of his bare skin. He sneaked a glance at Ozwald from behind his sunglasses. The man was looking at him with an expression that was entirely too self-satisfied and knowing. Crowley resolved to be extra awkward. </p><p>With Alistair dressed back in his own clothes and the suit set to one side with all the pins in place, it was Crowley’s turn. </p><p>“Crowley we do still have your measurements on file. We can use those, or are you going to make me measure you again?”</p><p>“What? And miss out on the opportunity to get the full experience?!” Crowley exclaimed, removing his jacket, stepping up onto the platform and spreading his arms in impatient readiness. He smirked at Ozwald.</p><p>“Well you know I just love to get my hands on you.” Ozwald sighed. “When, oh when, are you going to come and model for me Crowley. You’d scandalise the catwalk, it would be sensational.” He said as he pressed the tape measure over Crowley’s narrow frame, reading out numbers that Alistair couldn’t help noticing were significantly lower than his own. </p><p>At Pepper's insistence Alistair had taken Crowley’s spot on the sofa, feeling the warmth left there from his body, and was finding it difficult to watch. Ozwald and Crowley clearly had some history, and Alistair found himself becoming rather irrationally jealous of the way the tailor was so familiar with him, hating every moment the man’s hands touched Crowley’s body, hating all the easy banter the two of them had. He could feel his hands balling into fists and tried to flex his fingers out in the hope that it would dissipate some of this building resentment. Crowley wasn’t his to get possessive over. He never would be. </p><p>“And last, but certainly not least, dresses <em> overwhelmingly </em> to the left.” Oswald said with a smirk as the assistant wrote it down, fighting to remain professional. </p><p>“Oi, oi, not in front of the kids!” Crowley protested, gesturing to Pepper. </p><p>“Jog on grandad.” She responded, sticking her tongue out. Ozwald burst out laughing as Alistair avoided everyone’s eyes, blushing, and Tracy looked Crowley up and down in a wistful manner that had him grateful she knew that he was about as straight as a turkey twizzler. </p><p>Fortunately he was saved by a rack of predominantly black suits that arrived. </p><p>“Ah Crowley, you do like to challenge me, as always you wicked thing.” Ozwald said. “These should have enough length in the arms for us to let them out to your requirements. And of course, all black. Heaven forbid I should get any colour on you.”</p><p>But Crowley wasn’t listening. On a rail that had gone trundling past the changing room entrance, he’d spotted something that cried out to him and dashed out to find it. It was a vibrant orange jacket, with a narrow, pointed lapel that bore a paisley pattern woven into the fabric. </p><p>“I want this. In black.” He said, holding it up as he came back in. </p><p>“You want black paisley?!” The assistant blurted out. </p><p>“Yep.” He said, with extra pop. </p><p>Ozwald grinned and rolled his eyes. He reached into the rack and pulled out a similar jacket, all black and with the same slimline lapel, although this one was a plain satin. </p><p>“Let’s start with this, and we will see about your psychedelia-defying paisley.” He said. Crowley grinned, hooked the jacket on the rack, and sauntered off behind the curtain with Ozwald and the assistant following with the black suit. </p><p>“Good job I wore underwear today.” Crowley observed rather loudly as the curtain was drawn across. Alistair just had to hope that neither of the ladies at his side heard his involuntary intake of breath at that statement, or saw the colour intensify on his cheeks. </p><p>“Gross! What happened to ‘not in front of the kids’!” Pepper called back.</p><p>Alistair tried to forget the fact that Crowley was slowly undre- no not slowly, just undressing behind the curtain and would shortly reappear looking, no doubt, utterly and sinfully sublime. Alistair focused on his hands in his lap to avoid staring, so missed the moment when the curtain pulled back and Crowley stepped out. </p><p>“Can I get a wahoo?” He asked, striking a pose on the plinth, hip cocked and hands in pockets.</p><p>“Oooh, yes!” Tracy said next to Alistair. “That is just right on you.”</p><p>“Ugh. Your legs are frankly unfair.” Pepper grumbled on the other side. </p><p>Alistair looked up, his eyes slowly trailing up Crowley’s form where he posed in front of them. When he reflected on this moment later on (and he did, at length, often when he should have been doing something else) he would realise that nothing could have prepared him for this. The suit was jet black, a soft sheen to the material that emphasised the shadowed areas where the fabric seemed to swallow the light. The lapels were narrow and pointed upwards, little flags signalling ‘here lies danger’. The trousers were slim, starting high on his waist and skimming down over his thighs, elongating his already impossibly long legs. Jacket hanging open, the sleeves were pushed up with the shirt sleeves loosely folded over them, to hide the fact that they would need letting out quite a bit to cover his slender wrists. A narrow column of matte black, plain, cotton shirt ran down his torso, broken up by small buttons with just a hint of red when they caught the light. The shirt itself had a narrow collar that Crowley had left unbuttoned, enclosing a thin black silk bow tie that dangled, purposefully untied, both ends draped over his chest invitingly. </p><p>Everything was slim, and long and the impact was devastating. The part that caused Alistair’s heart to skip a beat, however, was Crowley watching him so intensely over the top of his sunglasses. Alistair had to tuck his hands between his knees in an effort to fight the urge to run them up under that jacket, feel the heat from Crowley’s skin through that crisp, dark shirt. He wanted to grab that immoral tie, drag him down and bury his face in the lines of Crowley’s neck and breathe him in. Preferably against a firm surface, the orientation of which would depend on whatever was closest. Crowley was the very epitome of sinful temptation. <em> Scandalous </em>.</p><p>Crowley spun around and faced an irritatingly smug Ozwald who was looking at him with a dangerous glint in his eye.</p><p>“It’ll do, I guess. Don’t forget the black paisley and the usual extras.” Crowley said as he turned back to the changing room again. Alistair didn’t even have the capacity at that moment to realise just how avidly he was watching Crowley saunter away, watching those snake-like hips dance as the jacket flared to the sway of his movements. Suddenly the curtain whizzed across and his eyes flicked up to catch one final glance of Crowley in profile, his face tight, before he realised he was still mute and staring open mouthed. He shut his mouth quickly and glanced at Tracy, who merely smiled kindly at him. She reached out and gave his knee a pat, just a hint of pity in her expression as he felt his face heat up yet again in his embarrassment.</p><p>“It’ll be alright love, you’ll see.” She said quietly. </p><p>The two suits were whisked away by the assistants to be altered, pins and chalk marks all over them. At the till Crowley haggled with Ozwald, both of them grinning like circling sharks the entire time, but when he got out his wallet Alistair batted it away. </p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous you daft serpent. You’re only getting this for my event so of course I’m paying.” He said. </p><p>“You don’t have to Alistair, ‘s no problem.” Crowley tried. </p><p>“No problem at all dear boy. In fact, I rather like the idea of seeing you in something I own.” Alistair used Crowley’s momentary fluster to hand over his card to the assistant.</p><p>“Bastard.” Crowley muttered. <em> God I love it... </em></p><p>While the transaction was being processed one of the assistants came up behind Ozwald and handed him a book. Alistair recognised it instantly. </p><p>“I’m afraid if I let you out without the obligatory signature Alistair, my son will never speak to me again.” Ozwald said as he put the book down on the counter with a pen. “He loves your books and was ecstatic when I told him you would be in today. He was devastated when my wife insisted he couldn’t miss school to come and meet you, so I had to promise I would get you to sign this.”</p><p>With that revelation Alistair felt terribly embarrassed. Not by the signature, but by his own assumptions and the resulting visceral reaction to Ozwald’s history with Crowley. He, of all people, should know better than to assume. </p><p>“O-of course. What’s your son’s name?” Alistair asked, picking up the pen and opening the book. </p><p>“Oscar.”</p><p>Alistair blinked a couple of times at the mention of that name, but collected his thoughts and wrote a short dedication on the front page before handing the book and the pen back. It was the least he could do after his behaviour. Pepper hurried them along from outside with a toot on the horn, and they bid farewell with a promise to come back together when the suits were ready. Tracy took Alistair’s arm on the way out, scrutinising him, so he patted her hand where it lay in the crook of his elbow. </p><p>“I’m fine, my dear, don’t you worry about me.” He murmured to her, the sureness in his tone even managing to half convince himself that it was true. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The three following weeks passed with far less drama thankfully. Crowley and Alistair found themselves automatically migrating to the library in the evenings to discuss all manner of irreverent topics over gin and cranberry juice. Alistair complained one evening that he had to read a passage of his book at the awards so Crowley insisted he read it aloud to him. Alistair read Michael’s suggested passage and Crowley vetoed it immediately for being too dull, instead offering up a different section which Alistair vastly preferred. He wasn’t surprised Crowley liked Nanny Ashtoreth, she was his sort of quirky. </p><p>Practicing the reading, and indeed reading out loud in general, became part of their routine. Even Crowley had a go at one point, putting far more effort into the voices than was strictly necessary. </p><p>“My dear you must be simply wonderful at bedtime stories!” Alistair gasped, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Crowley cursed his own stupidity. <em> It’s totally normal to fantasise about reading a fully grown man a bedtime story, right? </em></p><p>Their first excursion out was to the National Gallery. It was familiar, had good security, and was never overly crowded. Alistair had spent many hours in these halls so was content to let Crowley lead the way, although as they wandered their way into Room 34 Alistair suspected Crowley’s apparently random meandering hadn’t been quite so random after all. Room 34 housed the Constables, Turners, and Gainsboroughs, Alistair’s favourite era in art. Having been to this room many times before however, Alistair was content to spend his time appreciating the work of art walking around with him. </p><p>Crowley was harsh in his appraisals of the artwork on display, arms waving around wildly in the air as he ranted about men more caught up with the drama of the idea than the actual landscape and life in front of them. Reality was flawed and there was beauty in its imperfections, he reasoned. Romanticising it did it an injustice. </p><p>Art was evidently something that Crowley could confidently talk about and Alistair found it thoroughly refreshing to hear such a controversial view point on some of the most loved art on display in the capital. The obvious tutting happening around them at his loud criticism seemed to amuse Crowley greatly and Alistair had a strong suspicion that it only spurred him on. </p><p>On an excursion to the British Museum Alistair got mistaken for a curator on a number of occasions, and Crowley took the opportunity to simply watch him being animated and passionate about whatever ancient object had caught his eye. Alistair's expensive education had included history, classics, and Latin, enabling him to talk about the objects and their wider importance in far greater depth. Crowley hid behind his sunglasses, gazing at him, basking in the warm glow that watching Alistair be so happy in himself gave him, totally unaware of the lovestruck smile on his own face. Alistair had such a way with people that put them so effortlessly at ease, a skill Crowley had never mastered.</p><p>As they stopped for coffee in the museum’s cafe, he realised he’d been shamelessly flirting with Alistair all morning. He was trying not to, but he just couldn’t help himself. He loved drawing Alistair out, challenging him, catching the man hidden behind the tartan and the pocket watch. All his training, all his years of putting on whoever he needed to be when he was protecting some dimwit politician or ruthless businessperson, all out of the window. He couldn’t help but be himself around Alistair and he’d gotten so used to it before he even noticed it happening. The way Alistair just seemed to accept him only made him love him more. </p><p>After a couple of visits Crowley quickly worked out that Alistair had a fondness for the ducks in St James’ park, so they went there as often as the weather permitted. It was probably the safest place in London with all the other high-value targets that would meet there on the park benches, a significant proportion of whom already knew Crowley (and if they didn’t, their own personal protection officers did). So they would stroll along, feeding the ducks that would hurry over at the sight of them. Crowley let Alistair in on the secret of the black swans’ preference for Russian black bread just so he could watch his smug expression whenever others looked upon them with envy as the notoriously fussy black swans swam straight over to them. He’d created a monster and couldn’t be prouder.</p><p>The trip to the British Library had been a mistake in hindsight though. Quiet spaces were not Crowley’s thing, books even less so, so Crowley quickly got bored and therefore mischievous, Ordinarily he would have found another way to occupy himself, but as Alistair frowned into his book Crowley found himself with an overwhelming urge to make him smile, particularly as he became more tense as the awards ceremony approached. </p><p>It started with small noises and silly faces that were studiously ignored. He then began to fidget and find ever more ludicrous ways to drape himself over his chair in an effort to distract Alistair and see that perfect mouth turn up at the corners in amusement, even as he was being scolded. When that only got him so far he began to pace around, swapping books around on nearby shelves, turning books backwards, even swapping a few dust covers. He went so far as to find the most ridiculous books which he sat across from Alistair pretending to read and critique, threatening to fold corners and miming ripping out pages in disgust. Then came a fleet of exquisitely folded paper aeroplanes launched across the table one after the other to land on Alistair’s book, Crowley commentating on their performance as they went. To add a bit of excitement, he had written several messages inside the aeroplanes, ranging from, ‘tartan sucks!’ to something dangerously close to a confession. To his combined disappointment and relief, Alistair didn’t open a single one. Although, unbeknownst to Crowley, one did make it into Alistair’s pocket. When he opened it later it merely said, ‘Bastard Angel’ on it, the tail of the ‘g’ looping around quite extravagantly.</p><p>Short of laying across the desk in front of Alistair like a cat (he had considered it), Crowley was doing everything he could to be more interesting than the book Alistair was trying to study, and winning. It was childish, but he didn’t give two shits if it made Alistair pull That Face. The one that made it feel like the sun was singing out in joy from his smile. </p><p>In fact, Alistair had long since stopped reading and was mostly seeing how far Crowley was willing to take his behaviour. Eventually he was forced to give in after he got an angry shush from another patron for a particularly explosive snort of laughter as Crowley pretended to have died from boredom and fell off the chair, and they both left rather rapidly, cackling and grinning all the way like teenagers. </p><p>Crowley had had no idea it was possible to feel this way because of another person. If he’d known, he'd have probably tried it sooner. </p><p>Their adventures continued with lunches out in everything from tiny local cafes to Michelin starred restaurants, and everywhere welcomed Alistair by name with a suspicious glance at Crowley. Alistair was clearly well known on the restaurant scene and knew all the best places to eat and what was worth ordering once there, occasionally ordering things that weren’t even on the menu. They fell into an easy routine where Alistair would threaten to start making noise if Crowley was petulant, and Crowley would steal bits off of Alistair’s plate just to see the indignant look on his face. It was a far more friendly relationship than Crowley would normally permit himself to have, but he’d already crossed that line with Alistair and he found himself doing whatever he could to elicit one of the many joyful expressions that Alistair had in his repertoire. Crowley was frequently triumphant in his endeavours. He was completely addicted to it, and spent far too much time thinking about ways he could make Alistair laugh, or tut, or just not think about any of the crap they were dealing with right now. It was daft, but doing things that made Alistair happy helped to ease the ache of the distance they had to keep between them. </p><p>One day Alistair mentioned in passing that it had been too long since he had visited Greenwich Park. Crowley pinched the Bentley keys while Pepper wasn’t looking and they zoomed out east to make a day of it. Crowley somehow found a parking spot right by the observatory, and Alistair did the eyes thing Crowley had no defence against when he discovered that there was a planetarium. So Crowley found himself staring up in wonder at the cosmos projected on the dome above them, and Alistair allowed himself a smug grin as he gazed upon something far more beautiful next to him, the otherworldly hues of the universe reflecting wonderfully in Crowley’s uncovered eyes. And, oh how unfortunate, the seats were packed in so tight that they <em> had </em> to sit pressed up against each other, arms connected from the tops of shoulders to little finger tips. </p><p>Alistair insisted on going to a concert despite Crowley’s best efforts at dissuasion, so tickets were begrudgingly booked under false names for them to see the London Philharmonic Orchestra play whatever happened to be on that week at the Royal Festival Hall in the Southbank Centre. Mr Harrison and Mr Cortese immensely enjoyed their evening of Handel’s ‘Water Music’, Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ and Bach’s ‘Mass in B Minor’, and Crow- Mr Harrison spent most of the night watching the expression of pure rapture on Mr Cortese’s face out of the corner of his eye. He soaked up every little gasp and glance overflowing with exquisite joy. It was intoxicating, a transcendental experience, and Crowley never wanted it to end.</p><p>In the interest of safety they kept all of their outings last minute, public, and unpredictable, and all the while Crowley kept alert for anyone getting too close, and never let Alistair out of his sight.</p><p>Family lunch was reinstated and everyone came, including Newt who had been hanging around the house a little more than was strictly necessary lately. Crowley questioned him about Gabriel who, it turned out, had been rather disgruntled recently. Perhaps due to Alistair finally standing up for himself a bit, Newt suggested. Crowley guffawed loudly at that, and Alistair beamed. </p><p>And all the while Crowley tried to ignore just how much he wanted to lean in, to touch, to hold on and never let go. He kept his hands in his pockets to stop himself from holding Alistair’s, from wrapping himself around him or sweeping him up into the bruising kiss he so desperately wanted every time Alistair did that little pleased wiggle. His whole body felt like a sunflower angling itself towards the angel in human clothing that was his sun, the centre of his solar system around which he found himself endlessly coiling. </p><p>For his part, Alistair was determined not to let his feelings show. To bury them deep so he could enjoy Crowley’s company for as long as possible, in the knowledge that one slip up, one step over the boundary line would have him retreating again. They had found a balance and he would toe that line if it meant keeping Crowley close. His hands would remain clasped firmly behind his back for all time if it meant Crowley would stay within arm’s reach. He found himself on more than one occasion, in private, succumbing to his more basic urges when the frustration got too much, hating himself for it, for the way it felt like a betrayal. He’d very quickly discovered why it wasn’t a good idea to see Crowley too soon after the first time, the dizzying mess of his own fantasies still fresh in his mind barging their way back into his conscious thoughts and sending him scurrying hastily back to his own room before he embarrassed himself even more. Lesson learnt, he made sure to avoid Crowley for as long as possible, but even then they ended up gravitating to their spot in the library. Crowley lounged on the the Chesterfield, cementing the sofa as his spot, while Alistair sat primly in the armchair dragged opposite. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They collected their finished suits two days before the ceremony, with Ozwald insisting they do the final fitting behind the curtain to keep the end result secret until the day. Alistair had never had anything fit so beautifully before and was utterly enamoured with the new lining. He promised Ozwald he would return soon to have a fully bespoke suit made.</p><p>And then it was the big day. Alistair had barely slept, instead running over every scenario in his head, working out how he would react when one of the other five authors was named the winner, determinedly not thinking about anything else that might occur. Over the last couple of weeks he had been trying to think of something nice he could say about his fellow finalists when the inevitable press circus began and had almost got his thoughts in order. </p><p>Crowley was on edge. He knew today was going to be tough, and the anticipation was making him jittery. He slunk into the kitchen and up next to Newt, who had apparently stayed the night and was now trying to work the coffee machine. It was having none of it, and was spluttering and steadfastly failing to dispense anything approaching coffee. </p><p>“Tried turning it off and on again?” Crowley snarled next to him, frustration getting the better of him. Newt yelped and jumped so violently he nearly threw the resolutely empty mug he was holding, stumbling sideways and catching it just in time, his chunky framed glasses askew. </p><p>“I… er… well that is… hnnnnn!” He tried as he straightened his glasses, cowering. Crowley chuckled in face of Newt’s incoherence all dressed up in Anathema’s decidedly occult dressing gown. </p><p>“You, er, still got some… right here.” Crowley gestured to his neck and Newt’s hand shot up to his throat where there was a dark lipstick stain. </p><p>“It’s not what it looks like!” Newt squeaked.</p><p>“Newton, I think this is exactly what it looks like, and I couldn’t give a flying fuck who Anathema takes to bed. I’m only here to protect Alistair. I’m not about to break both your legs and dump you hundreds of miles from home with not a stitch on you for getting involved with her.” Crowley smiled, but there were far too many teeth for Newt to cope with, particularly attached to a body that was malevolence personified as far as he was concerned. </p><p>“Unless she asks me to, of course.” Crowley shrugged lightly, and Newt turned and fled. Obstruction removed, Crowley cackled to himself and set about getting the coffee machine to work. One by one the rest of the household trickled in. Newt didn’t return to the kitchen and Anathema shot Crowley a glare across the island which he countered with another shrug as he sipped his coffee. Eventually Alistair bumbled in and Tracy immediately shoved a cup of tea in his hands. He looked at her blankly and she rubbed his shoulder gently before heading to the stove to cook a gargantuan fry up. </p><p>The day passed in a bit of a blur for Alistair. Michael tried some last minute coaching on talking with the press, but he was in such a daze that he just stared mutely at her and she eventually gave up. Crowley found him sitting at the dining room table staring into his teacup as if he might divine the outcome of the night from its dregs. He placed a small rectangular box down on the table in front of him and perched on the chair to his left, leaning forward. Alistair slowly looked over at the box, but didn’t move. Crowley waited. </p><p>He tried to be patient, he really did, but it was never his forte. He leaned forward and opened the box so it faced Alistair, pushing it towards him. That finally got some movement, and Alistair’s hand came up to gently touch the contents, face softening. </p><p>“You lost your last set of wings in the… uh… yeah, so I got you some more. Thought these might be a bit easier.” Crowley said quietly. Alistair’s fingers brushed over the golden wings. Cufflinks, one wing each, they would go perfectly with his shirt for tonight. “Squeeze either of them for three seconds and it’ll activate, same as before.” Crowley told him. </p><p>Alistair continued to run his fingers over the tiny feather detailing. “Thank you, my dear. They’re perfect.” When nothing else was forthcoming, Crowley left Alistair to it. After a while Tracy led him gently up the stairs to make him pack. They had been given a suite for the night, and planned to check in and get ready at the hotel, with the others joining them later on. </p><p>Pepper drove them over, dropping them in front of the entrance and irritably waving away the valet, much to his disappointment. The doorman in his navy blue suit gave them a nod as they walked in. Alistair clung to his suit carrier, holding it protectively in front of him as he followed Crowley carrying both bags and his own suit slung over his arm. The receptionist greeted them with a warm smile which Alistair instinctively returned, but Crowley’s face remained tense and alert. </p><p>“Welcome to The Ritz, gentlemen. Do you have a reservation?” The young man asked. </p><p>“Er, yes, Fell, Alistair Fell and Anthony Crowley. We’re here for the awards ceremony. The Booker one. We should have a room? Well, a suite actually...” Alistair nervously babbled. </p><p>“Certainly sir. Yes indeed, a deluxe suite with an extra bedroom.” He reached down under the desk, and returned with two sets of key cards. “Number 66 for you Mr Fell, and 67 for you Mr Crowley. You’ll find them on the fifth floor, the lift is over there.” He said pointing to the corner. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us, and if there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ring the concierge.”</p><p>Crowley scowled slightly, but took the cards and they headed for the lift. Once inside, Crowley swapped the keys around.</p><p>“They’ve got you recorded as being in that room, so we’ll swap. For safety.” He said. All the lightness was gone from his voice, all the mischief. This was business, and Crowley was on duty. </p><p>They got to their rooms and Crowley checked them both over for signs of anything untoward before he let Alistair settle in. There was a sitting room area between the two bedrooms, the doors moulded to match the walls so either bedroom could be shut off making it a smaller suite. Leaving the his door slightly ajar, Crowley retreated to his own room. He heard Alistair bustle off to have a long, hot shower, and he tried with all his willpower to not think about the fact that the man he was hopelessly in love with was undressing in the next room. He tried not to imagine the slow reveal of smooth, soft skin that would be taking place, instead pacing around his room, sneering at the opulence of it to give him something else to focus on. The bed was colossal, the curtains and drapes far too fussy, and he had a fireplace for fuck’s sake. The coving was ridiculously ornate with its fiddly gold detailing. It was decadent, it was over the top, and he would bet anything that Alistair loved it. </p><p>Crowley checked the door to the corridor was locked, and ventured into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar so he could hear any commotion. He groaned. Black marble, or at least something that looked very similar, ran around the lower half of the room and over the counter that housed the sink, with a lighter version around the top. And more gold in the towel rail and taps. The mirror was enormous, making the room feel far more spacious than it actually was. It was fussy, and it was ridiculous. He wondered what Alistair thought of it as he peeled his clothes off, inspecting himself in the excessive mirror as he did so. He cast a critical eye over his scrawny frame, all the angles and ribs and scars everywhere, his torso too long, his posture diabolical. He’d long ago made peace with the fact that he’d never be one of those men who bulged with rippling muscles, and instead learnt to use guile and cunning to outwit rather than out-brawn his opponents. And when that failed, there was always speed, sharp implements, and a working knowledge of Krav Maga. He turned the shower on, fiddling until he got it just shy of scalding. At least the pressure was good here. </p><p>Five minutes in, as he was relaxing under the hot jets that pummelled his back, hair plastered down over his face and water running over every inch of his touch-starved skin, Alistair snuck into his thoughts again. Here in the private confines of his shower cubicle, with its steam obscured gilt and glass door, he struggled not to let his mind wander, to ponder over what exactly Alistair might be doing in such a long shower, to picture the water hitting those sublime shoulders and running down his back, tracing those luscious curves with soapy bubbles. The trouble was Crowley knew what Alistair looked like under his clothes. He knew the sounds Alistair would make. He knew the feel of his hands, the smell of the man, and he had a very vivid imagination. Here, in this little intimate sanctuary where the sounds of the outside world were muffled, Crowley indulged. It was only sensible, he reasoned, get it over and done with so he could concentrate on his job. Just a way to dial back some of the tension and stay sharp. He refused to acknowledge the way he found himself lingering as his imagination let loose on all the possibilities of Alistair in there with him, how he would touch him, take him apart against these cool tiles. The thought of Alistair pressing him against the glass, possessive and needy, fully capable of taking what he wanted as he growled his name, was what finally tipped Crowley over the edge, sinking to his knees as his legs struggled even more than usual with the concept of standing. </p><p>He stayed there for a while, kneeling under the hot spray and feeling ashamed for using Alistair in that way without his consent. He was blurring the lines between professional and personal all over the place, and it was starting to get difficult to keep track. Finally standing and turning off the shower, he dried off and shoved on a Ritz monogrammed towelling dressing gown that had been on the back of the door. He just had to hope that he could put off facing Alistair long enough for his shame to die down a bit. </p><p>Alistair, meanwhile, was in much the same predicament. But he’d had a lot more practice at not letting his little moments of indulgence spill over into the rest of his day. </p><p>Crowley had just managed to get some underpants on when he heard a knock at the bedroom door. Alistair would use the door from the suite, they hadn’t ordered anything to the room, and the rest of the group weren’t due for another hour or so. He slipped his hand into his overnight bag, now fully alert, and brought out a long, thin knife. The blade was darkened to keep it from catching the light and drawing attention to itself. He crept towards the door pulling on pyjama trousers. They weren’t ideal, but they were quick to put on and it was better than facing fuck knows what in just his pants. It tended to blunt his image somewhat. </p><p>He padded silently over to the door and peered through the spyhole, holding his body to one side out of the obvious range. The spyhole distorted the image somewhat, but he knew the shape of Ligur’s head anywhere. Relaxing slightly, he pulled the door open enough to look out, the knife tucked away behind him. </p><p>“Ligur. To what do I owe this displeasure?” He joked. Ligur blinked and paused for a moment, as if caught off guard </p><p>“Crowley.” Ligur said, and Crowley spotted Hastur lurking in the hallway a bit further down. At the mention of his name Hastur’s head snapped round from where he'd been inspecting Alistair’s door. </p><p>“Didn’t know you’d be here. You two working tonight?” Crowley asked. It would be useful to know if there were allies in the room. </p><p>“Uh… yeah. Lord Beelzebub is attending for some reason. Probably tax related. Saw you come in and thought we’d let you know we were here.” Ligur said, and Crowley heard the slight hesitation in his voice. <em> Curious </em>. </p><p>“Well consider me notified. See you later yeah?” Crowley asked, not wanting to be standing here any longer with the horror twins in his pyjamas. No, wait, half his pyjamas. Even better. </p><p>“Yeah. Later.” Ligur grumbled as they both stalked off down the hallway. Hastur hissed something quietly at Ligur, who cut him off aggressively. Crowley filed their presence away in the back of his mind, and concentrated on getting ready. Ozwald had been good to his word and had added several discreet pockets to the lustrous red lining of Crowley’s jacket, his one concession to colour. He set about filling the pockets, idly wondering why the main breast pocket was lined with gold. He wrote it off as one of Ozwald’s quirks and hung the jacket back up. He had a little while to rest and go over his plans before anyone else arrived and the evening kicked off in earnest. </p><p>It was certainly going to be a long night. This was surely the best chance any would-be assailant was going to get any time soon, and Crowley needed to stay sharp. The trouble was, Alistair was going to be there, in that terrifyingly bewitching suit, and he was going to need all his years of practise of shutting his brain off to distractions to get through it. </p><p>But he’d thought about that cloth now, thought about how soft and inviting it looked, how much he wanted to feel the texture of it against his skin.</p><p>
  <em> Yep. Long night.  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ozwald Boateng is a real place. The shop is real, the man in real (although I've had to make up his personality based on what I've read of him, so apologies if I've mis-represented him). He really does have a wife and a son called Oscar. </p><p>The three pieces of music they listen to at the concert were chosen because it's the three tapes that Crowley tries to play in his Bentley in the book, which have unfortunately been in the car for more than two weeks. </p><p>The Ritz! From what I can glean from Google, that is actually what the rooms look like. Deluxe suites are one bedroom, but you can connect them to a second double room so they would still both have doors to the hallway I believe.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Showtime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>At six o’clock a black cab rolled to a stop in front of The Ritz and decanted five impeccably dressed women, all chattering happily. Crowley had already updated Anathema with which rooms they were in so they went straight through reception to the lift, Tracy giving the doorman a sultry smile as they passed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After checking through the spy hole like Crowley showed him, Alistair let them in, taking their coats and leading them through to the lounge space that separated the two bedrooms. Michael immediately set up on the table, sinking into her phone as usual. She had forgone her usual suit this time, instead opting for crisp, white drainpipe trousers and a flowing, pleated white chiffon blouse with wide trumpet sleeves, that ended with an ornate, looping hem. Her hair was pulled up into its usual towering quiff, her makeup businesslike and minimal. On her feet were sensible white Oxfords in recognition of the fact that she would be on them most of the night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema swished in behind her in another elegant taffeta gown. The fabric was a lustrous, dark, bottle green that swept down across her bust from a flat boxy bow on one shoulder before nipping at her waist, then gracefully billowing out into a floor length, ballroom style skirt, complete with black tulle under layers to give the skirt volume. Two pockets were neatly hidden in the side hems, and the length allowed her to get away with flat, slip on shoes. Her hair was swept up in a classic ballerina bun which, by the end of the evening knowing Anathema, would have loose locks curling down around her neck and face, tangling in her elaborate, crystal chandelier earrings. A simple winged eyeliner and a bold red lip set the whole look off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tracy had opted for a stage whisper of a dress. Billowing, cerise pink, pleated chiffon, layered over a matching slip and nipped in at the waist with elastic, the neckline and the cuffs of the full length sleeves encrusted with crystals and beads in a variety of sizes. The dress started at her collarbones and extended down to just below her knee, her feet encased in an equally pink shoe with a moderate heel. </span>
  <span>Her eyes were adorned with her usual long, black, fake eyelashes, and her hair sprayed to within an inch of its life to hold the curled, red bob. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Uriel was striking in white again, this time with a floor length, bias cut, crepe gown with narrow, spaghetti straps and a cowl neck. The soft fabric draped gracefully over her statuesque frame, and a high slit to one side allowed for a full range of movement. She was also working tonight, so had wisely forgone heels for flat gold sandals that snaked up her ankles. Minimalist gold accessories and makeup had her looking like a rather more capable Bond girl. There may have been weapons on her person, but it would take a very brave, or very foolish, person to find them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pepper was the last to come in. She had found a wine-red dress, the strapless bodice boned to hold structure with a dramatic swooping neckline that came up either side into two points around her bust. The skirt was over-full and burst out from her waist, the dipped hem starting just above her knees to the front and trailing slightly on the floor behind her. Chunky heeled, black ankle boots and a statement necklace gave the look her trademark edge, along with her bold, colourful eyeliner and natural curls that bounced around her face as she moved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair greeted them all with a brief hug, overflowing with compliments to the point of babbling as his nerves got the better of him. Anathema gently shushed him and helped him with his jacket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was no hiding from the fact that he was scared; they all were. Whoever it was that was trying to hurt Alistair would have worked out by now that he had survived the fire, and, thanks to Crowley’s insistence on unpredictability, this was the only time they would know where he would be. There was a very real risk of being attacked tonight, but Alistair knew he couldn’t hide forever. Not when it put others in danger. Not when it had already got Eric killed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is utterly gorgeous Alistair. I really love the gold lining fabric.” Anathema said as she held his suit jacket up for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes! It is rather sumptuous isn’t it?” He commented, slipping his arms into the sleeves. “Although I cannot for the life of me work out why the inside breast pocket is red.” Alistair turned, pulling the jacket open to show her and they both pondered it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“By the way, did you know you’ve got tartan under your collar?” She replied</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I say, do I? How nifty!” Alistair reached a hand up and pulled at the collar to inspect it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think it might actually be your tartan as well.” Anathema said, observing him fondly as he span around slowly on the spot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I must say, ladies, despite my initial misgivings, I am very impressed with Ozwald. He was a marvellous find!” Alistair said as he gave up and came to a halt, flattening his collar again, beaming. Michael looked up and gave him a quick once over, followed by what could almost be a genuine smile, albeit a tense one. She had a lot of work to do tonight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They all jumped at the two sharp knocks from Crowley’s door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! Yes, of course, come in Crowley, we’re all here!” Alistair called as he fiddled with his bow tie. He ran his hands nervously over himself in an attempt to straighten out the already perfect suit. He tried to ignore the butterflies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Crowley came ambling loosely through the door, jacket undone and hands fussing with his own bow tie, frowning at it as his legs swung him around the doorframe and into the room without looking up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stupid bloody thing won’t sit right.” He mumbled half to himself. Alistair immediately saw what the problem was and dashed over to sort it out, leaving the women all definitely not watching and exchanging glances where they sat on the other side of the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here, let me.” Alistair offered. Crowley startled at the presence suddenly in front of him as hands came up towards his neck. Ordinarily, being approached like this would have resulted in Crowley flooring his would-be assailant with no small measure of prejudice, but Alistair had freshly applied his cologne as he was getting dressed and as the scent permeated Crowley’s senses it stopped every non-essential function his brain was capable of. For a moment he had a mad thought that Alistair was going to kiss him, his lips parting in a silent gasp before he came to his senses and shut his mouth with a snap, tilting his chin up to give Alistair room to work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair stopped just a handful of centimetres from his chest and Crowley fought the magnetic urge to sway forward and close the gap. He could just see the top of Alistair's head, tilted slightly to the side and leaning in to better see as his hands looped and teased the black silk into a perfect bow. Crowley was acutely aware of the stout fingers that were brushing against his neck with every rustle of manhandled fabric. Each touch sending sparks scrambling across his skin and leaving him barely able to breathe with the effort of staying still. Then Alistair hummed in satisfaction, quiet and low, and oh fuck it was too much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s hands were still raised awkwardly out to the side, knowing that if he let them move there would be only one place they would go. He thanked every deity listening that he had already put his sunglasses on, although he was sure the heat he could feel rising up his neck would be painfully obvious any moment now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Alistair finished adjusting the tightness of the knot his brain caught up to the fact that he was standing dangerously close to a man he was frightfully attracted to and who was wearing </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> suit. The one with all the angles and drama, that insinuated a very specific kind of danger that your mother might have warned you about. The one that had rendered him speechless the last time he’d seen it and it hadn’t even been finished. The one that he’d paid for, and was therefore his, on Crowley, and oh goodness that did something funny to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair’s hands dropped to Crowley’s chest to smooth over the fabric where his wrists had rumpled it as he tied the bow tie. Had the black silk always had that slight red iridescence, or had he imagined it? The black paisley pattern was there on the lapels, just as Ozwald had promised, only visible when the light caught it. The finished suit seemed to caress Crowley’s body, somehow making his already lithe form appear even more graceful. It was fabric engineering elevated to an art form, and Alistair was in awe. But more than that, he felt calm here. Safe in the aura of protection that Crowley had always seemed to exude. Yes this man meant danger, but never to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley brought his chin down carefully. Alistair hadn’t moved away, his hands resting on Crowley’s chest, his unruly curls tickling his jaw and oh how he wanted to press his face into them. They smelled of coconut, clean and sweet, and Crowley knew with a heart stopping certainty that if Alistair were to look up now there was a very serious danger that he would kiss him. There was a part of him that thought he should probably be professional and step back, but it was too quiet for his legs to get the message.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair’s hands were burning from the heat of Crowley’s body radiating through that light-defying jacket. He realised he would only have to move them a little to feel Crowley’s heart beating, before realising with horror that he was just standing there, completely still, with his hands on Crowley's chest, looking at the glint of red in the buttons that ran down the middle of his chest in silence. Alistair stepped smartly backwards before he did anything really daft like looking up and discovering just how dangerously close he was to that irresistible mouth that he was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to walk away from. A frenzied apology fell from his lips as his hands fought against the loss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a slight movement of Crowley’s head that gave away his gaze as it swept up and down Alistair where he stood in that incredible suit, taking in all the little details like the way it hugged Alistair’s body, sweeping across his broad shoulders and chest and embracing his solidity. It showed off his strong, physical presence, tempering it to his gentle personality with the enticing texture of the fabric and the plushness in the way it folded at his elbows. Ozwald had excelled himself and Crowley was falling all over again. After a few more moments than were strictly necessary, Crowley’s lifetime of training kicked in and he noticed the anxious tangle of fingers at Alistair’s chest, looking up to see a hesitantly expectant expression. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. What did he just say?! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Crowley glanced towards the group standing at the other side of the room. Their expressions ranged from mildly disgusted (Uriel), to wistful (Tracy), through oblivious (Michael) and finally ended up on fondly exasperated (Pepper and Anathema). So no help there. He looked back at Alistair. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pensive, seeking something. Not posing for approval, so… crap, yeah! The bow tie! </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“’S perfect Alistair, thank you. I can never get it even.” He tried as casually as possible, and indeed, the storm clouds on Alistair’s brow cleared, leaving behind his customary radiant smile in their wake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah f’fucks sake… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Crowley thought, as he felt himself melting at the sight of this ridiculous man that had borne away the withered chaff that was his heart with little more than that smile. He found a part of him secretly hoping that it would all end tonight. That the killer would reveal themselves so he could obliterate the only thing keeping him from finally throwing himself to this angel’s mercy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema wasn’t sure how much longer she could watch the two of them dance awkwardly around each other. It was a shame that other people couldn’t see auras the way she could, she mused, because everything they needed to know was plainer than the distinctive noses on their faces. However it was Michael who ended whatever the fuck kind of moment they were having this time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The press is gathering downstairs so I’ll need to head down. I hear Carmine Zuigiber is there, so please try and behave, we do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> need her poking her nose around.” She said as she got up from her seat. Alistair spun round to face her when he heard her voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Remember Alistair, your aim is to mention your book as much as possible. Keep any praise for the other candidates short and vague, and no snarky comments this time?” She gave him a look which sent him straight back to disappointed school masters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes Michael.” He said in well-practised tones. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And lastly, dinner is at nine, and you’ll need to network the room beforehand as afterwards they’ll only have eyes for the winner.” Michael instructed, her manner suggesting she thought him unlikely to be taking that spot. Crowley scowled as Alistair deflated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now, have you got your reading? Have you practised it?” She asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair's hand flew to his pocket. He was dreading it. He hadn’t found the time to tell Michael that he’d changed the passage he was reading. Except, that wasn’t quite true was it? He’d been too afraid to tell her, blaming it on lack of time. Either way, she didn’t know he was reading a different section, and he’d decided his best course of action at this stage was to seek forgiveness rather than permission, and forge on ahead with what he’d practised with Crowley in the library in the evenings. He recalled the smile that would creep onto that serious face when he read aloud, and it gave him something approaching courage that it might not be hated as much as he feared. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, we- I’ve practiced it.” Alistair said in his best long-suffering voice. Michael merely blinked, raised one eyebrow, and walked out to go and prime the room downstairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Evening, you lot.” Crowley said, turning to the rest of the room. “Not a bad effort I suppose.” He said with a grin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cheek!” Pepper grinned back at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You got your ear piece for tonight, valkyrie?” He asked her, and she pointed to her ear by way of an answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. Turn it on when we get downstairs, and for someone’s sake, don’t forget to turn it off if you go to the toilet… We don’t need to hear that.” He said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We?” She asked, looking at Alistair with one eyebrow raised. He looked equally as perplexed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Crowley was looking at Uriel. “Yeah, got one for you too Uriel.” He said, passing her a familiar box. “I trust you know how to use one?” She sneered at him and put the piece in her ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who’s this ‘Carmine Zookeeper’ then?” Crowley asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Zuigiber’” Anathema corrected. “She’s a reporter for ‘National World Weekly’, and she writes the trash column. All celebrity spats, dramas, that sort of thing. If she goes after you, she digs until she finds some dirt, and if she can’t find any, she makes some up. Real gutter press.” Anathema’s tone, combined with the expression on her face, conveyed her opinion of this behaviour perfectly. “Avoid her like the plague, and if you can’t, don’t piss her off. She’s ruined people far more high profile than Alistair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley mirrored Anathema’s disgust. He’d had run-ins with her type before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tracy broke the silence that followed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well… I don’t know about you, dearies, but I could do with a drink.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A general chorus of agreement followed, and they all filed out and down to the bar</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The bar itself was another ornate riot of exuberance, packed full of all manner of literary folk all dressed in their finest, intermingling with the bar’s usual city folk as well as wealthy international travellers. Crowley stayed close to Alistair. He and Uriel were going to work as a team again tonight so that Alistair was never alone. Shortly, Newt joined them, having left Gabriel schmoozing. He was easy to track as he moved through the crowd, his steely grey suit and violet tie standing out in the sea of black tailoring, his impeccably coiffed head poking out above it. Failing that, his obnoxiously loud voice was, unfortunately, hard to miss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Newt had done his best in a dark suit that had just a hint of green, paired with a white shirt and a striped tie. He was trying to be subtle about placing as much distance as possible between himself and Crowley and failing dismally. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Drinks ordered at the bar, they drifted off as they were poured to sit at a long table surrounded by armchairs and upholstered benches. Somehow Crowley’s cranberry juice was the last one so he found himself alone at the bar with just over two hours to go before the event started. He turned and leant back on it, scanning the room on instinct. So far he’d not seen anything that would usually raise his alarm, and, critically, not seen anyone that resembled Sandalphon. Leaning haphazardly on one elbow, he watched the people moving around Alistair’s table. From here he could really indulge in watching Alistair move, studying his face in profile, his hands dancing around as they alternated between stuttering through the air and holding onto each other for dear life in his lap. Even from here, he could tell that Alistair was terrified and trying to hide it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It almost hurt to see Alistair so tangled up with fear, but they both knew that tonight there was a very real chance that whoever this was that was targeting him would try again. And now, standing there with the reality of it all around him, Crowley realised that for the first time in his career he was scared too. He’d always cared about keeping his clients alive, but for the first time he was beginning to feel that rumbling tremor of mortal fear himself. He was scared of losing Alistair and if he did it would be all his fault.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello stranger.” Came a sultry voice from his left, mercifully breaking him out of his spiralling thoughts. He let his eyes swivel before his head moved, to take in the true auburn hair, the perfect eyebrows, the long legs beneath the red leather jacket and mini skirt, and, perhaps more crucially, the recording device in her hand, held low where most wouldn’t see. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Reporter. Not an immediate threat.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You look like a dangerous man.” She continued, putting a martini glass with a speared cherry sticking out of it </span>
  <span>down on the bar. “I’ll bet you’ve got some really fascinating stories.” She leaned in, evidently used to using her appearance to draw gossip out of people. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Barking up the wrong forest here, love, </span>
  </em>
  <span>thought Crowley, thoroughly amused. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Might have.” He teased, watching her face as she thought he’d taken the bait. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She leaned in even closer and murmured, “I just love exciting stories. I’ll bet you’ve got some really thrilling ones, haven’t you. Something that I’d be sure to find… titillating.” She was looking him up and down in a hungry manner, smiling seductively. Her hand idly drifted from her drink, one finger trailing along his forearm. It was a formidable assault that was, sadly, totally wasted on him. He toyed with the idea of setting her on Newt to see if he actually burst into flame but ruled it out on humanitarian grounds. Plus Anathema might actually curse him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me a story. What sort of danger might a girl get into with a man like you?” She purred.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Over at the table Alistair was feeling sick. He’d glanced over to Crowley impatiently, wondering why he hadn’t caught up with them yet, to see… her. Leaning in, smiling at him, touching him in ways that Alistair wished he could. And Crowley was indulging her. He felt his nails dig into his palm. This was ridiculous. Crowley wasn’t his to feel jealous over, but here he was, a hair’s breadth away from storming over there and… and… </span>
  <em>
    <span>and what? Physically throwing her off him?</span>
  </em>
  <span> The very thought of it turned his stomach even more. He could try talking to Crowley, distracting him, but what if he wasn't interested? He couldn’t take that level of rejection. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The jealousy triggered a wave of adrenaline that left Alistair floundering, fighting to keep his emotions in check. Head swimming, he watched this… this... </span>
  <em>
    <span>harpy</span>
  </em>
  <span> pluck the stick from her drink, place the it between her grotesquely red lips, and drag the cherry from it by suction alone. He saw Crowley lean in to murmur something in her ear that made her laugh - a loud, unabashed noise that drew envious looks from those around them as she threw back her head, tossing her hair, but still Crowley only had eyes for her. Alistair could only wish he could laugh in such a carefree manner. She handed him a card which he took without looking at it, slipping it into his jacket pocket as she drew back, looking back at him just once over her shoulder as she disappeared into the crowd. Alistair couldn’t watch any more. He tried to tune back into the conversation around him, work out what he’d missed, but all he could think of was the sly smirk on Crowley’s face. The one he’d thought of as just for him, aimed at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly Crowley was at the table, drink finally in hand, looking completely unperturbed as if he hadn’t just sent an already jittery Alistair into a spiralling meltdown. Alistair realised that somehow the only seat available was the one next to him, and Crowley was going to sit in it, like everything that had just happened was completely normal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, perhaps ‘sit’ is a bit generous</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Alistair thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>There really should be another word for what he does to furniture. Luxuriate? Disparage? Subdue?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You alright, Alistair?” Crowley asked, frowning over the ubiquitous sunglasses. “You look a bit pale.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“F-fine dear boy. Perfectly tickety-boo. Well, as much as one can be in the circumstances.” Alistair forced out without looking up, knowing his voice sounded as tight as his chest felt. The writhing serpents in his belly were particularly effervescent tonight it seemed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wanna go check out the stage?” Crowley offered. “I was going to have a reccy anyway, before it all gets going. Standard practice. I’m sure they won’t have any objections to you doing your own.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Crowley looked so earnest, so sincere in his efforts to help, so unaware of what he’d just done that it only made Alistair more upset. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure you don’t need to meet up with your new friend?” He snapped, regretting it instantly as he heard the table quieten at his tone of voice. Crowley looked confused, then amused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, you mean the reporter? The one Michael warned us about?” Alistair felt the panic shoot through him like ice. His hands felt clammy around his glass and his ears started to ring. Focusing on the woodgrain of the tabletop and the cold feel of his glass of wine, he took a deep, shaky breath to ground himself. Somewhere he heard Anathema gasp. Crowley hadn’t been cosying up to a random harlot, it had been Carmine Zuigiber. The celebrity gossip warlord of National World Weekly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was laying it on rather thick. Dunno what she thought she’d get out of me though. Told me I looked ‘dangerous’, and tried to seduce some gossip out of me.” Alistair could hear the hurt in Crowley’s voice that he was trying not to let show. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What did you tell her?” Uriel asked, her voice cold enough to freeze the fires of Hell itself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told her I had plenty of juicy stories and sensssational anecdotes.” Uriel looked about ready to unleash the wrath of the gods. Pepper was grinning. “But if I told her any of them, I’d have to kill her. Official secrets act, and all that.” He tipped his head and his glass at Pepper who tried her best not to laugh out loud. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Besides,” he shrugged, turning back to Uriel and putting his drink on the table, “she’s not my type. Not even close, so her charm offensive is wasted on me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh? And what is your type then would you say, Crowley?” Asked Tracy, attempting to sound innocent. Unfortunately it had been a very long time since ‘Madame’ Tracy could be considered innocent, so she was a tad wide of the mark. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s suave confidence faltered. Bollocks. He’d walked straight into that one hadn’t he? He caught himself glancing at Alistair on reflex and had to hope he didn’t notice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh… well… I s’pose… not that? Kinda the opposite, really.” He tried, suddenly a good deal less cocky. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something a little more… masculine perhaps?” Anathema said. “Bit quieter?” Alistair could see where this was going from the mischievous tone in her voice, but before he could shut it down Pepper chimed in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bit more bookish, healthy streak of bastard?” She grinned as Crowley glared at her, his jaw clamped tight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think it’s time we went and had a look ‘backstage’, don’t you?” Alistair said as he stood up, in tones that made it clear that this conversation was over. Curiously, the three ladies all found something very interesting to hold their gaze away from Alistair’s unimpressed stare as they sipped their cocktails, unable to keep the grins off their faces. Uriel just looked thoroughly bored by the whole thing and Newt seemed completely lost, but that was nothing particularly new. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll keep an eye on things here.” Uriel said, and Alistair shocked himself at how relieved he felt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley mumbled something that Alistair couldn’t make out as he frowned at Pepper, then stood up and walked away without looking back. Alistair hurried after him, catching him up just as he stepped into the hotel lobby. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m terribly sorry about them, they mean well, but they get a bit excited.” Alistair tried, feeling thoroughly embarrassed at not only his own reaction, but at the position Crowley had been put in as a result.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley just shrugged, but he slowed his stride down so Alistair wasn’t practically jogging to keep up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The evening’s event was to be held in the ballroom. In keeping with the Ritz’s aesthetic, the ballroom was a gilded cornucopia of rococo elegance with a simple, modular stage set up at one end for tonight’s event. It was merely a slightly raised platform with a minimalist lectern in the centre and a microphone arching over the top. Behind the stage hung a simple, black curtain with the sponsor’s logo in the centre, allowing the occupants to stand out in photos rather than be lost in the ornate plaster mouldings and jacquard drapes. The guards on the door hadn’t been too keen on letting someone that looked like Crowley in, but when they saw Alistair they begrudgingly allowed them to have a look. He was a finalist, after all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the room was filled with circular tables with ten seats around them. Long, white tablecloths covered the tables and there was a low floral decoration in the centre of each. Staff were bustling around laying out cutlery and glasses, putting out name cards on each setting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Were you looking for anything in particular?” Alistair asked, looking at the stage with trepidation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sight lines, exit routes, the usual.” Crowley half-muttered, head swivelling around as he mentally ran through various scenarios. “You’ve got your cufflinks?” He asked, turning to face Alistair, all traces of the awkwardness and the casual familiarity, gone. This was work, and it was serious. Alistair gulped and his hands jumped to his cuffs automatically. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Er, yes.” He said, fingers running over the feather texture. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. Remember how to use them?” Alistair was finding Crowley’s gaze quite intense particularly as he was standing rather close, and Alistair could still remember how the silk of his bow tie felt under his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just press them for three seconds and you’ll come running, yes?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Wouldn’t even need the cufflinks. Just need to ask, or look at me with those eyes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Crowley thought. “Right.” He said instead, turning away in case his face gave too much away despite his sunglasses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alistair, if anything does happen, I need you to do exactly what I say, no matter how daft it sounds, do you understand?” Crowley said solemnly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I trust you.” Alistair said, and it was true. He trusted Crowley with his life. It was his heart he was worried about. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Checks complete and on their way back to the bar, Crowley noticed Gabriel having a very heated discussion with someone in an alcove off the main hallway. Hands shoved in the pockets of his smoke grey coat and splayed outwards in exasperation, his coat blocked the other person from view. Crowley judged that by the angle of Gabriel’s body, the person he was talking to was shorter than average. He caught a glimpse of a pitch-black bob of hair before the view was obscured by a beige marble pillar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next hour was spent making tedious small talk with other attendees in the bar. Tracy had managed to corner Shadwell again to everyone else’s relief, and Newt was standing next to Anathema, gazing at her with puppy dog eyes while she spoke animatedly to another PA. Michael and Gabriel were thoroughly working the room, while Uriel observed from her spot by the door. Pepper had found a gang of city boys and was smashing the patriarchy one banker at a time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley kept to Alistair’s side, hovering just behind his left shoulder. Conspicuous but ignorable, he merely listened in to the chit chat, offering his opinion on Alistair’s various conversation partners after they had left, occasionally before. He strongly suspected Alistair was now finding the most offensively obnoxious people he could, just to irritate him. He was having to come up with more and more elaborate ways of saying ‘twat’, but it was making Alistair do that devious little chuckle so he would do it all night if that’s what he wanted. Shit, he’d do it forever more, given half the chance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With half an hour to go a waiter in a white jacket and thin black tie threaded through the bar finding the various speakers for the evening and requesting that they make their way to the ballroom. Crowley let Uriel and Pepper know where they were going via their earpieces and saw them both nod towards him in acknowledgement, before following Alistair back to the scene of the evening’s entertainment. His phone rang but he sent it to voicemail without looking. Nothing could distract him tonight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Microphone briefing completed, it was suddenly time for everyone else to trickle in and find their seats. All six finalists had been given a table each, in front of the stage. The rest of the room was filled with other authors, literary VIPs, reporters, publishing agents and even the odd celebrity. Everyone was dressed impeccably (almost everyone - Shadwell still hadn’t replaced his old woollen suit, and Newt could make a couture tuxedo look scruffy, but not in a good way), and chattering excitedly about the evening’s entertainment. Some had already raided their goody-bags and were flicking through the copies of the shortlisted books.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At nine o’clock precisely, the house lights dimmed, and a single spotlight illuminated Frances on stage as she welcomed the guests, thanked their sponsor (Industrial Holdings (Holdings) PLC) and congratulated the shortlisted candidates once again. The winners would be announced after the dinner, provided again by Raven Sable and his team at Chow, with a string quartet keeping them entertained in the meantime. At her words the music started, the house lights rose once again, and the doors at the end of the hall flung open to admit a swarm of waiting staff in short, white jackets and slim black ties, carrying plates of food. But even that wasn’t enough to get Alistair to crack a smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair picked his way through the starter, and then hardly touched his main. Their table was directly in front of the stage, Alistair sitting on one side with the stage to his left and Crowley to his right, between him and the rest of the audience. Crowley had thoroughly inspected the table and chairs, and then moved everyone around so now Uriel was to Alistair’s left, sitting with her back to the stage, with Gabriel beside her. Pepper was sat next to Crowley, with Tracy on the other side, then Anathema, and, finally, Crowley had taken pity on Newt and put Michael between him and Gabriel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel grumbled about his seat initially, and Crowley noticed he kept glancing towards a table behind him somewhere. Sprawling even more languidly than normal, he glanced around the room to see what he could possibly be so taken with. He spotted the bob of black hair again, and realised it was a woman. A Lord to be precise. Lord Beelzebub, flanked by Hastur and Ligur. Fortunately they seemed to be engrossed in their food and didn’t see him. Mr Shadwell had been seated at their table and did not look happy about it, which pleased Crowley no end. For a Telegraph reviewer, the man wasn’t very…. sophisticated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Alistair didn’t even perk up at the pudding arriving, Crowley started to worry. The others were also shooting concerned glances between themselves and pointed looks at him. Crowley had to find a way of calming Alistair down. He was idly contemplating the merits of various options, when he felt his phone in his pocket go absolutely berserk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The panic alarm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley forced down the immediate bolt of terror as he snapped round to see Alistair white as a sheet, eyes wide as if he’d seen a ghost. Tracy noticed Crowley’s reaction and looked to Alistair as well. She followed his gaze and Crowley heard a small “Oh shit,” escape her lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oscar.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oscar. The arsehole ex-boyfriend Oscar. Well that was a complication they didn’t need right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley cancelled the alarm on his phone, and tried to get Alistair back from whatever precipice he was currently standing at. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alistair, Alistair look at me.” Crowley told him gently. “You’re ok, look over here.” But Alistair didn’t show any signs of being able to hear him. Crowley pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, already dreading what he knew he was going to have to do.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Angel, look at me, please.” He said, gently using one hand to turn Alistair’s face towards him. And he did, eventually dragging his eyes around to look at Crowley rather than Oscar. Crowley noted the moment that Alistair’s eyes changed as he looked into Crowley’s, registering the lack of sunglasses. He saw Alistair’s hands relax on the edge of his vision. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s it Alistair, you’re alright, just look at me.” Crowley said gently. The hand that had turned Alistair’s face was now resting on the table, and Crowley brought his other hand up to rest on his broad shoulder to soothe himself as much as Alistair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better?” Alistair nodded slightly. He still looked frightened, but the terror had passed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now. Do you want me to see that he has a little… accident?” Crowley asked, his voice low as he flashed a cheeky grin. Crowley wasn’t generally one for unprovoked attacks but Oscar sounded like he deserved it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, like breaking both his legs and dumping him ‘stark bollock naked’ hundreds of miles from home?” Anathema asked pointedly from somewhere across the table. Newt whimpered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley didn’t break Alistair’s eye contact, but he shrugged. “I was thinking more along the lines of accidentally on purpose spilling his drink so he either has to leave, or spend the evening looking like he pissed himself.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>For starters, anyway...</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there it was, the tentative smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or perhaps we’re thinking too small. I’m sure I could get hold of something fiendishly sticky and some feathers if there was to be a requirement… Whaddya say, Angel? You know I’m good for it.” Crowley waggled his eyebrows and Alistair’s shoulder softened under his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair opened his mouth to speak but before he could get more than one syllable out the lights went out again. Crowley felt him grab his hand where it lay on the table and hold on tight, and if he turned it over to hold him back, well nobody could see in the dark. And besides, they were all too busy looking up on the stage. All except Crowley. Who watched Oscar with professional interest as he weaved towards his own seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frances came up to the lectern to speak. It was the usual sycophantic gumf, praising everyone and everything connected with the awards, with a liberal sprinkling of the sponsor’s name shoehorned in wherever possible. There was some talk of an award for a lifetime achievement to a man in a large black hat with shrewd eyes who looked vaguely familiar, but Crowley had more important things to do than work out where he’d seen that particular amused expression before. He had a distinctive voice, and Crowley could appreciate a joke about losing earnings by gaining credibility, but the voice didn’t trigger any new memories so he couldn’t have met him properly. Besides, Crowley was on the lookout for a threat, and this affable man was decidedly not threatening. Crowley zoned out. All awards ceremonies were the same, and he had long ago learnt to ignore what was happening on stage. Instead he spent the time carefully looking around, seeing who </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> was looking around. He’d already spotted a few other bodyguards, people he’d seen before at events like this. They exchanged nods of recognition, but that was about as far as it ever went. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That Lord Beelzebub seemed to be looking their way more often than could be rationalised, though. She seemed to be looking at Gabriel. Crowley would concede under duress that Gabriel was nice to look at, as long as he didn’t speak. Or look at you. Or think anything nasty which probably ruled out most mental activity in his case. Just the type for a privileged, power hungry movie exec then; film star looks, and a diva personality. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley noted the other authors stepping up to the stage one after the other, presumably to do their readings. He didn’t pay much attention beyond the rounds of applause. The stage was not where the threat would come from.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then suddenly Alistair was pulling away from him. He tightened his hand on instinct as his head snapped around to see what was happening. Alistair was looking back at him pleadingly and everyone on stage was looking their way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ohshit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Crowley let go and Alistair stood and made his way up to the stage. Of course, Alistair had his own reading to do. Crowley focused on Alistair as he looked around the room with barely concealed fear. Alistair’s roving eyes found Crowley again and looked straight at him, and only at him, just like they’d practiced. With the lighting on him Alistair’s hair was glowing again and, to Crowley at least, he had never looked so angelic as he did up there on that stage. Even the spotlights trained up onto the sponsor logo behind him were hitting the cloth at such an angle that, if one were so inclined, they might look very much like wings. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not yet, dear boy. Not yet. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Crowley couldn’t keep looking at him. He needed to look around him, around the room. Alistair was at his most vulnerable, and right now Crowley needed to focus on guarding his angel rather than gazing upon him. And so, with regret, he turned away to look at everything but Alistair, everywhere that might harbour a threat. He heard Alistair begin to read, his voice shaky at first, but becoming stronger as he was lulled by the familiarity of the world he had created, and Crowley kept looking, nervous energy leaving him fidgeting in his seat. He looked at Oscar, who seemed... uncomfortable. Awkward. Shy even. Not the sort of expression you would find on someone that felt the level of hatred required to burn down a house with people inside. Combined with what he knew R.P. had gleaned from a background search, Crowley downgraded him as a threat and moved on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel had moved around the table into Alistair’s seat for a better view as Alistair began to read, the chair pushed right out into the space between the tables. Crowley was about to not-so-politely request that he tuck the fuck in and not block his path shithead, when suddenly he felt tight, his whole body coiled and ready to strike. Something was wrong. Off in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He edged forward on his chair, shifting his weight more to his feet. Something was going to happen, and he needed to work out what. Alistair’s life depended on it. He looked back towards Hastur and Ligur to see if they’d picked it up. Hastur was without his partner in grime again, eyeing Crowley with a grotesque smirk on his face. Crowley scoured the crowd for the other half of the disturbed double act, and found his mark in a reflection on one of the mirrored walls. Just half of a face, a tuft of hair, but it was enough. Ligur had moved to stand behind a pillar near the front, looking across the stage, and couldn’t possibly see Lord Beelzebub from his vantage point. It was a very odd position for a bodyguard to take up, unless he had seen a threat. Crowley glanced across to where Ligur was looking. There was nobody on the other side of the stage, in fact nothing really in that line of sight at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except for Alistair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sickening lurch his perspective shifted, and he realised he wasn’t looking at a defensive position, at an ally, he was looking at a trained mercenary purposefully concealing themselves. A precision killer, who had earlier knocked on what he believed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alistair’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> door. Crowley should have seen it, should have noticed the surprise, but he’d been so distracted by his little shower fantasy that it hadn’t clicked until now. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Messy. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he saw the very tip of something dark and sinisterly metallic creep out from behind the column his instincts took over. Gabriel was still blocking his path so he went high, springing out of his seat and vaulting the odious man with one hand on the table and one on an overly-padded shoulder, oblivious to the gasps and shouts that erupted around him. He had roughly five metres to cover before he got to the stage, then another three on it to get to Alistair. Eight crucial metres that seemed to stretch endlessly as he tried to chase them down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere inside him he was screaming. Somewhere beneath the lightning strike of cold, hard logic and adrenaline, somewhere down below the shutters that slammed down in these moments, Crowley was looking helplessly on in horror at the man he had fallen irrevocably in love with, who was unknowingly in the sights of a man whom he had never known to miss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he wasn’t going to make it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair was right in front of him, eyes wide in shock and fear, and he wasn’t going to make it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only bloody thing he was here to do, and he wasn’t. Going. To make it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had one card left to play. He’d never played this one before, the ace he kept up his sleeve for emergencies, and he was going to play it now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley threw himself towards the only man he’d ever loved, and prayed. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Will he make it? Will he be too late? What do the tags say?</p>
<p>It turns out the Ritz doesn't have a ballroom, so I have just enlarged their Palm Court room to fit. It's a riot of rococo elegance, and where they serve afternoon tea.</p>
<p>The lifetime achievement award is of course Terry. The Booker committee don't do lifetime achievement awards, but he deserved a mention here so tonight they do. Thief of Time was put forward for the Booker at one point but didn't make the list. Terry joked that he was relieved, because his 'earnings would have gone down considerably if [he] suddenly got literary credibility'. He also goes on to say he doesn't like the idea of a lifetime achievement award, but pfff. What's he going to do? Haunt me? (For the record I'd be totally up for that.)<br/>The interview is <a href="https://januarymagazine.com/profiles/tpratchett2002.html">here.</a></p>
<p>Good heavens that's us ticked over into a six-figure word count...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Caught in the Crossfire.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In the course of this chapter we break away from the original Bodyguard plot and strike out in search of that happy ending. </p><p>You get Alistair's POV first though...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alistair had always looked forward to dining at The Ritz, but not tonight. Tonight was different. Tonight there were expectations. Tonight he didn’t just have to worry about getting up on stage, reading a bit, and then looking happy for whoever won, no. Tonight he had to also contend with the very real possibility that someone would try to hurt him, perhaps even kill him. That alone was enough to contend with, without having to do it all in the presence of the most infuriatingly wonderful man he had ever laid eyes on, who just so happened to be quite unreasonably attractive tonight. </p><p>Yes, rather foolishly perhaps, Alistair cared what Crowley thought of him. Far more than he should do, if he was honest with himself. He was loath to break out the big ‘L’ word again, but he seemed to be running out of reasons not to. Crowley was the very antithesis of everything he was, but he made him feel so accepted. Even when Crowley teased him about getting lost in a book, or his fussy dress, or even the way he enjoyed his food, it never hurt, it never made him feel like he was less. Put simply, Crowley made him like who he was. </p><p>Alistair really wished he could work out what Crowley felt. His bodyguard could be so distant, so aloof, and yet in the next moment so intense that it left Alistair reeling. He would see snippets of something, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. The one thing he did know, was that that night, after the fire, where Crowley had looked as if his whole world had ended, what had transpired between them was so much more than the stereotypical response to stress. The way Crowley had held him felt like… like something he was trying very hard not to think about every waking moment. </p><p>Alistair dragged his mind back to where he was. Seated with Crowley to his right and the stage to his left, so he had to turn his back to Crowley to look at it, Alistair tried to pay attention to the welcome speech and ignore the way his back felt hot under Crowley’s gaze. Frances was living up to her nickname of ‘God’ tonight, presiding over the fate of the mere mortals on the plain below her. When the food was announced Alistair was half expecting bread and fish. </p><p>Now the food he had been looking forward to. Alistair knew he was a comfort eater; food brought him comfort, and the eating of said food had resulted in his comfortable waistline. But with Gabriel watching him tonight from across their round table, judging him over the low mound of purple rhododendron, ornamental cabbage and spiky juniper sprigs that decorated the centre of the tables, it seemed he would be denied even that. </p><p>The wait staff gathered around their table, all poised, ready for the nod to place the starters down as one. It was lobster. It arrived on a bed of beetroot with slices of blood orange artfully arranged beside the white flesh. It looked spectacular, but it just made Alistair think of blazing red hair, deliciously tousled and gliding silkily through his broad fingers. He tried to eat it, but it felt like desecrating a precious memory and he couldn’t bear it. Nibbling the bread roll instead, he pushed the food around his plate and hoped nobody would notice.</p><p>The main was Anjou Pigeon, with celeriac, spice pear, and truffle. A combination sure to have even the most cynical salivating, but not Alistair. Not this time. The spices from the pear were too reminiscent of a scent he couldn’t get out of his head. The celeriac brought a bitterness that cut through the other flavours, a crisp note of discord that balanced the smooth, gamey flavour of the pigeon. A bold flavour to counter and yet compliment the gentle taste of the meat, and wasn’t that a familiar dynamic. He couldn’t eat it, once again picking at the parts in the hope that it wouldn’t be too obvious. </p><p>For pudding, the waiters brought out a decadent chocolate soufflé. Ordinarily Alistair would have savoured it, revelling in the decadent richness of the dark taste, the lightest of touches on his palate causing the most exquisite explosion of intense flavour. He fervently wished this ultimate indulgence could be more than a pale facsimile of the intensity brought by the lightest of touches from the man to his right. <em> Perhaps a dash of chili? </em> He managed two bites before he had to lay down his spoon. </p><p>His wine remained untouched. Already a bundle of nerves, his single glass earlier had been more than enough to make him realise it was not sensible to continue. </p><p>The fact remained, that Alistair was worried. Worried about having to read on stage, worried about ruining the event if someone caused a scene in their attempt to harm him, worried about just how much he couldn’t get Crowley out of his head. It was bordering on obsession and he had been down this path before. He had felt this pull towards another man, squashed himself into the tiniest of boxes to please him, but still it hadn’t been enough. </p><p>Alistair fiddled with his sleeves, with the golden, winged cufflinks Crowley had given him, running his finger over the tiny bumps of the embossed feathers. It had been simple enough to substitute his usual cufflinks for ones that served a vital purpose, but Crowley had been so thoughtful as to make them something that would fit in with Alistair’s preferred style, and he found he liked them rather a lot. </p><p>So he didn’t notice how much his grip instinctively tightened as he looked up and saw across the room the very last person he had ever wanted to see again. Not tonight. Not when there was so much already to worry about. His mind instantly took him back to all those years ago, all those times he made excuses, tried so hard to be what he’d wanted, what he was told he should be, and yet he was never enough. </p><p><em> Oscar</em>.</p><p>Alistair instantly felt the same fear he hadn’t realised he’d taken everywhere with him at the time. It was too much on top of everything else he had to worry about and he found himself spiralling, his surroundings fading into nothingness in his panic. </p><p>And then the next thing he knew there was a gentle hand on his cheek, a solid point that he could focus on, guiding his face around and away and bringing him back to the present. He followed, and lost himself again as he found hazel eyes so beautiful as to be bronze gazing at him with a softly worried expression. </p><p><em> Crowley</em>. </p><p>Crowley had never tried to make him fit into a mould. He had never made him feel inadequate. Crowley had never tried to suggest he should change in any way at all. He was what Oscar should have been. Alistair felt the loss of his gentle hand on his cheek, even as the other came up to rest on his shoulder. As the last excuse he had stood behind fell over, he had to admit the full extent of his feelings to himself. </p><p>“Better?” Crowley was asking him, and he nodded. <em> Oh yes, yes you are my dear, </em> he thought. <em> Far better than Oscar, far, far better. </em> </p><p>“Now. Do you want me to see that he has a little… accident?” Crowley asked, and there was that mischievous grin that Alistair so adored. He vaguely registered Anathema saying something rather pointedly that made Newt whimper, but how could he hear anyone else over the pounding of his own heart?</p><p>“I was thinking more along the lines of accidentally on purpose spilling his drink so he either has to leave, or spend the evening looking like he pissed himself.” </p><p>It really was marvellous the way Crowley just saw what he wanted, and it never occurred to him that he shouldn’t do it. Alistair smiled in spite of himself at the thought of Oscar being bested by Crowley, because there was no doubt in his mind that he would be. He already had been.</p><p>“Or perhaps we’re thinking too small. I’m sure I could get hold of something fiendishly sticky and some feathers if there was to be a requirement… Whaddya say, Angel? You know I’m good for it.” Alistair couldn’t help himself, hearing that name. He felt the words bubble up in his chest, felt them rise as he opened his mouth.</p><p>“I…”</p><p>Saved by the darkness that fell, the words evaporated from his tongue as the sudden blackness threw him back three weeks into dark, stormy woods. The brightness of the stage lights seemed to dance in his vision like flames, camera flashes like lightning setting off the thunder of applause. He instinctively reached out for Dog just as he had done that night, but found Crowley’s hand instead, where it lay on the table, pulling him back to reality, heart swelling as the hand he grasped, turned over and clasped him back. </p><p>
  <em> I love him.  </em>
</p><p>Alistair listened to the voices on the stage, straining to hear them over the sound of his blood rushing through his ears. </p><p>
  <em> I love him. </em>
</p><p>Frances was gracious as always in her appreciation of the authors on the shortlist, handing out a lifetime achievement award which Alistair had to work hard to hear over the maelstrom of his own thoughts. </p><p>
  <em> I am in love, with Crowley. </em>
</p><p>Then it was the readings, and he just about recognised his name as he was called to the stage. After only a minor hiccough as he untangled his hand from Crowley’s, made all the harder by the fact that he didn’t actually want to let go, Alistair nervously stepped forward, pushing down the realisation ringing in his ears. Frances was towering over him from up there, and with the black curtain backdrop and spotlights she looked far more celestial than was reasonable. The stage itself was a basic timber construction, all painted black, just something that could be put up quickly and taken down even faster, with two steps along the front to climb up onto it. Just two steps to ascend. If the road to Hell was paved with good intentions, Alistair mused, then the stairway to Heaven was a deceptively simple trip hazard. Personally he viewed the stage up there as Hell, however, but that was just a matter of opinion. </p><p>He managed to get himself up the steps and over to the lectern without tripping, but up here, oh up here he could see so many faces, so many eyes. Even with the lights pointed at him, doing their best to blind him, he could still see people out there, silently watching, waiting for him to speak. He was holding them up with his dithering. Taking up too much of their time. Too much of this stage. Too much <em> room.  </em></p><p>The ballroom looked so different from up here. The gilded wall mouldings were shining softly in the half-light, the ceiling invisible behind the stage lighting. There were mirrors on the walls, frames into panes like windows, reflecting the people and the backs of all the security and staff standing around the perimeter and multiplying them so the room felt more full. From a seated height it would feel more spacious as it reflected the space above them, but for Alistair the ones at the other end of the room mostly reflected the stage. </p><p>Alistair could see a smaller version of himself, trapped in the spotlight and fragmented in those panes. Broken apart into all the fragile pieces, never quite making a whole person. He could see Frances behind him, glowing in her white gown, the other members of the board and representatives of the sponsors all watching him. Waiting, patiently for now. There was no escape. </p><p>And now he knew Oscar was out there somewhere. Had Oscar known he was going to be here? After all this time had he come to torment him? Had he seen that Alistair had managed to make something of himself and had come to remind him that he didn’t belong here, amongst all these talented people? Was Oscar behind the attacks? He couldn’t bear to think about it. </p><p>Alistair’s darting eyes found Crowley. Focused. Even with those infuriating sunglasses back on that he would never admit did actually look irritatingly stylish, he could tell Crowley was looking at him just as if they were in the library. Crowley was sat there in the suit that Alistair owned, the jacket hanging open and the red lining spilling out, blissfully unaware that Alistair was completely in love with him. <em> I wish you were all mine. </em> </p><p>Alistair’s eyes drifted back to the lining of Crowley’s jacket as he thought of his breast pocket. The colour was a perfect match. A little bit of his knight in obsidian armour right next to his heart. Ozwald was shrewd, he had to admit. He wondered if Crowley had a matching bit of gold nestled there by his chest, safe, next to Alistair’s heart that he’d been guarding for weeks.</p><p>With the two small squares of red silk burning into his skin, forming a barrier between him and the prying world, Alistair felt safer. Grounded. No longer would the crowd of eyes be able to bore into his very core. Even as Crowley looked away Alistair knew he had a shield from behind which he could face the world on his own terms. </p><p>And so he began to read. He let the familiarity of the story wash over him, welcoming it like a favourite jumper. He’d known Crowley wouldn’t be able to watch him like he had in the library at home. He had a job to do looking around the room, searching the corners for the bogeymen. </p><p>Alistair hoped that he wouldn’t find one. </p><p>But then suddenly Crowley exploded out of his seat, leaping over Gabriel, and Alistair froze, the screams and gasps from the audience drowning out his own. He hadn’t even had time to register what was happening before Crowley dived straight at him, twisting in the air to face him as he threw the lectern off to one side. As they both went down he just remembered the look of raw fear on Crowley’s face. Visible even around the darkened glass. He barely felt it as his head bounced off the wooden floor, thinking of nothing but the smell that suddenly surrounded him. Crowley landed on top of him, smelling of cloves, and mace, and that <em> bloody </em> earthy undertone that Alistair had never been able to name, but now, with it all around him he realised it was wood. No… wood <em> smoke </em>, because of course it was. Cloves and mace and wood smoke. He couldn’t help the jolt of satisfaction from working it out, breathing it in with delight. But then a new smell crept in, a strong scent that completely overpowered the rest. Again, something familiar that he recognised but couldn’t immediately name. It was sharp and metallic, and not particularly pleasant. It seemed to sting his nostrils. </p><p><em> Blood</em>. He felt himself go cold with the horror of the realisation. </p><p>And then there was light. And chaos. And Frances’ face upside down and saying something very urgent that Alistair couldn’t hear.</p><p>Why couldn’t he hear her? Why was there no noise? </p><p>Crowley’s body was on top of his, still and warm, holding him tightly, his head tucked safely into Alistair’s neck, his hair blazing red under the harsh stage lighting. </p><p>Hands came down and as Crowley was pulled away all the sound returned in a solid crash of noise. Alistair heard shouting, he heard screaming, Frances was urgently asking him if he was hurt, but he didn’t hear Crowley. </p><p>Crowley was being pulled away, and Alistair was trying to follow. Hastur was there, holding Crowley tightly, his head slumped forward, sunglasses askew. Alistair looked up to see Ligur reaching for him to help him up, but his hand wasn’t open, it was closed in a fist and it was holding something that shined in the lights of the stage. Staring dumbly at the glinting blade hidden from the view of those around them in the panicked chaos as it moved towards him, Alistair willed his body to move but it just wouldn’t, and there was so much <em> noise </em>. </p><p>Then Ligur was violently thrown sideways and Alistair looked over to Crowley, except Crowley wasn’t there. Hastur was stumbling, holding a bloodied nose, and Crowley was sprawled over Ligur. It was a frantic tangle of black suits and malice and the sorts of noises you couldn't forget no matter how hard you tried, and then… then the movement stopped. More hands were pulling Crowley away again, the dripping knife falling from his hands as he was dragged upright, sunglasses gone and arms pinned behind his back. Crowley was grimacing, teeth gritted in pain or anger as his eyes sought out Alistair, desperately trying to break free. Ligur wasn’t moving, his hand splayed out across the stage towards where Alistair was cowering, eyes staring blankly through him as the pool of blood spread across the black wooden floor. </p><p>Alistair vaguely registered Crowley repeating Hastur’s name as he was wrestled down and pinned to the ground. He was up and on his feet before he even thought about it. </p><p>“<b>Unhand him at once</b> ! He is my bodyguard, you imbeciles, and he is doing his <em> job </em>!” He ordered, and the hotel security sprang back, their training to obey a particular type of voice prevailing over their uneasy duty to grab the man who’d had the bloodied knife. Crowley tried to move from where he was slumped on the floor but Alistair got there first, dropping down and pulling him into his lap. Crowley’s eyes were rolling around unfocused, his body too loose. He was trying to grab hold of Alistair but his hands just couldn’t grip and there was a horrible bubbling sound coming from somewhere. Crowley felt too light. He felt too cool to the touch. He felt… wet. </p><p>“Crowley! Crowley you idiot, look at me!” Alistair pleaded, cradling Crowley on the floor. Nothing. “Come on, please, look at me you pretentious prick.”</p><p>That seemed to get a reaction, Crowley’s eyes slowly focusing under eyebrows that were edging closer together. </p><p>“Ang’l…” He whispered. </p><p>“Still no, you impossible man, just me.” Alistair could feel the tears gathering. Crowley looked so… wrong. </p><p>“Yr…OK? Did… you… prick?” He gasped out. Crowley’s face was deathly pale, his lips turning blue. His chest was heaving as he sucked down laboured breaths that didn’t seem to be having any effect, and the horrid bubbling sound was getting wetter.  </p><p>“You’re damn right I did. What were you thinking?!” Alistair scolded, his voice tight but holding no real anger. “And yes, I’m fine. Now for heaven’s sake, why are you so wet, and what is that <em> awful </em> noise?” He said as he brought his hand out from under Crowley’s body to inspect it. </p><p>It was red. A dark, sticky red. Oh.<em> Oh no… </em></p><p>And then Crowley’s face relaxed in relief shortly before his head flopped back and his whole body sagged in Alistair’s arms, and Alistair couldn’t stop the tears that burst forth as he stared at his palm, glistening crimson with blood. </p><p>“Oh… FUCK!”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It hadn't been hard to get a private hospital room. The staff at St. Thomas’s Hospital had watched with mounting trepidation as Alistair swept out of the ambulance, fire in his eyes and blood all down his front, and proceeded to bulldoze his way through the management team to make sure Crowley had everything he might possibly need, whilst swatting away the nurse who was valiantly trying to check him over. </p><p>When he went up to the ward the nurses there had been rather bewildered when this supercilious bastard that they’d been warned about, who wouldn’t even entertain the idea of a ‘no’, had turned to them with the most angelic of smiles and promptly charmed the fight right out of the cantankerous matron. </p><p>In the early hours of the morning, when Crowley eventually came out of the operating theatre, he had a light and airy private room with an ensuite and an outside window, and Alistair was allowed to stay with him at all times despite not being a relative. In return, the staff on the ward found themselves never wanting for any tea or biscuits, and there was a sudden upturn in the granting of requests from the finance department. Alistair got to know all the various staff as the shifts cycled around, and word spread of the angel with a heart of gold and an iron will on the tenth floor. </p><p>If only Crowley could wake up. </p><p>Later that morning the police arrived and tried to make Alistair come to the station for his interview. When Alistair refused to leave they gave up and conducted it in a room nearby while a nurse promised to stay with Crowley. They talked around in circles enough to make an acrobat dizzy, trying to make him slip up and incriminate Crowley, but Alistair was steadfast in his defence and the officers left with a headache, a mountain of notes of which only half were even on topic they’d discover, and a vague sense of wanting to be a better person. They left an officer on the ward to make sure Crowley wouldn’t wake up and escape without being questioned while they ran background checks on what Alistair had told them of his past.</p><p>Tracy and Pepper arrived with his and Crowley’s overnight bags from the hotel. Frances appeared while they were there and Alistair hastily scrubbed his face to try and look presentable to meet her. She asked after Crowley, then gave Alistair a hug that held far more love than he thought he deserved, and informed him in gentle tones that he’d been the winner of the Booker prize this year. He received her congratulations with a sort of confused detachment. Frances promised that they would make sure he had his moment in the spotlight, despite his assurances that it really wasn’t worth the fuss, then left him in peace. Tracy and Pepper stayed for a while to make sure Alistair was ok, reassuring him that they would take care of all the details. When they left he felt lighter, the burden of everyday life suspended while he waited for Crowley to wake up. </p><p>The doctor who came to check on Crowley told him that the surgery went well, and all the signs were good, but they wouldn’t be waking him up yet. </p><p>By the second day the staff realised that Alistair intended to stay for the long haul and managed to find a reclining armchair that was brought to the room. Alistair sat by Crowley’s bedside listening to the quiet hums and chirps of the various sensors and the steady beeps of the heart rate monitor. The bullet had punctured Crowley’s lung so even after emergency surgery to remove it and patch up the tear, he was still surrounded by tubes, drips, various needles perforating his arms, and sensors stuck all over his chest. Half his face was obscured by the ventilator mask helping him breathe, and he had a tube with a valve poking out from in between two ribs to drain the air and fluid there. He looked so much smaller like this, so fragile, balancing between this world and the next. He was like a fly caught in the middle of a web, cocooned in starchy white sheets, not sure if he was awaiting freedom or the big, black spider. </p><p>When it became too much just watching him lie there, Alistair stood looking out of the window over the rooftops of the building opposite. The roof was a large expanse of glass that curved down and away, reflecting the sky. Even the April weather was joining in with the despondency it seemed, the sky shrouded in clouds the colour of asphalt, hiding the sun. </p><p>Alistair missed Crowley’s eyes. He hated the machines, hated what they represented. Hated how much Crowley needed them to survive because of him. Because someone had decided to try and kill him, and Crowley had got himself hit in the crossfire. Another life on his conscience. But at least Crowley had come out with a chance, and he was fighting for it. Yes, Alistair hated all the medical paraphernalia, but he was also supremely thankful for the purpose it was serving. According to the doctors Crowley’s recovery was going well and all the monitors were looking good, but he wouldn’t be waking up today. </p><p>Crowley had been sedated after the surgery, kept unconscious until he would be able to breathe on his own. On day three they came to attempt to take off the mask and Alistair had had to leave - he couldn’t watch them switch off the ventilator that was keeping Crowley alive, to see if he would breathe on his own. But Crowley was a survivor, and the doctors said he was doing well enough without the ventilator that could be moved to just a nasal tube. They slowly dropped the sedation over the course of the next two days, to let him wake up naturally. </p><p>In between watching for any sign of movement, Alistair passed the time reading. Tracy would bring him books, along with food and a change of clothes. She would sit with him for a while, both just talking. Sometimes she just sat and held his hand as he cried.</p><p>Pepper had refused to come again, opting instead to text Alistair every morning and every evening for an update. </p><p>Anathema popped in from time to time with top ups for the ward staff’s biscuit tin, and to make sure Alistair was keeping himself occupied. She brought a tall rubber tree in a large pot for the room, in the hope that it might cheer him up and give him something else to focus on. Apparently they were very good for purifying the air, she’d read, and plants in hospital rooms helped patients recover quicker. Alistair recalled Crowley’s habit of scolding his plants, so spent a fair amount of time when he was alone talking to the small tree, encouraging it to grow, and praising it for doing such a good job. </p><p>On the fourth day the officer on duty outside Crowley’s room stuck his head around the door to let Alistair know they were removing the police presence on the ward. He didn’t know the full details, just that the order had come from far higher up the chain than his clearance gave him access to. </p><p>“Someone very powerful has vouched for him would be my guess, and it’s got too political to be worth pursuing him as a suspect any more. For what it’s worth, I really hope he makes it. Sounds like he did a good job. He’s turned into a bit of a superstar back at the station and the squad are all quietly rooting for him.” And with a nod he left. </p><p>Alistair read to Crowley, just in case he could hear. Tracy managed to find books that had absolutely nothing to do with anything they’d recently experienced, so Alistair read them aloud, but, being Alistair, he included a running commentary on the plot and characters as he did so. She even found a book on astronomy that Alistair did his best to read out loud, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar names and technical terms. </p><p>One of the porters found a portable speaker, and Anathema showed him how to connect it to his phone and download music. He played Vivaldi, he played Queen, he even tried some Velvet Underground (which was most decidedly not bebop it turned out) and still Crowley slept. As a last resort Alistair forced himself to sit through Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata in its entirety just in case, but other than minor changes to his heart rate, Crowley remained resolutely asleep. </p><p>The nurses still recorded Crowley’s progress as ‘good’. </p><p>When the doctor popped in for the daily assessment on the fifth day, in scrubs covered in cartoon sea creatures, she announced that they would be removing the tube that was draining the cavity around his damaged lung, as well as the nasal tube if his sats were good enough. She seemed mildly intrigued that Crowley hadn’t woken up, but assured Alistair that it was still a normal reaction and that Crowley’s prognosis still remained good. </p><p>Alistair stared out the window while they worked, watching the pigeons circling. The doctors removed the tube after applying some local anaesthetic, stitched up the hole, then gently removed the oxygen tube whilst keeping a close eye on the machines. Whatever they said, they seemed satisfied as the tube stayed out and Alistair was left alone with him again. He briefly wondered how Crowley would feel about more scars, then scolded himself for such a frivolous thought at a time like this. </p><p>On day six, the doctor came back to check he was still improving and Alistair took the opportunity to stretch his legs. He wandered through the main corridor before finding himself in a small courtyard roof garden. It was a peaceful oasis amongst the bustling London hospital, even with the sirens from the ambulances filtering up from the A&amp;E entrance downstairs and the barking of dogs being walked in the park opposite. He was shocked to find it was early evening. When had he lost track of the time so badly?</p><p>The garden was empty and Alistair found a short bench, just wooden slats screwed into two blocks of concrete. He sat in the low light staring into the greenery, thoroughly exhausted, his mind blank for the first time in the last two weeks. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there when a gentle voice startled him from his stupor. </p><p>“Can I pray for you, my child?”</p><p>Alistair looked up to see a woman, slightly younger than himself, her mousy brown hair pulled back into a sensible, serviceable bun, barely visible in the light spilling in from the corridor. She wore simple black trousers and a black shirt with a tell-tale white dog-collar under a thick down jacket. Alistair pulled his own coat around himself tighter.</p><p>“I… I don’t…” Alistair tried. </p><p>“That’s ok, I can just sit with you if you prefer?” She offered. “My office is just across the corridor and you looked rather lost if you don’t mind my saying.” She sat down at the other end of the bench, her face a practiced, calming neutral. “I can offer you prayers, or I can offer you ears.” She said gently.</p><p>Alistair didn’t even know where to start. </p><p>“It’s been a while since I tried to talk to God.” He admitted. “And I don’t think my… the man I’m here with, I don’t think he’d be very keen.”</p><p>“Does he mean a lot to you?” She asked gently. Alistair stiffened. He had been involved with his local church once upon a time, everyone in the village had, but as he grew up and reached puberty and discovered all these complicated feelings he had pulled away from organised religion and the prejudice it held. He glanced nervously at the priest sitting next to him, the lectures from so long ago ringing fresh in his ears. He looked at her open, carefully reassuring expression and at the brightly coloured lanyard around her neck that held her staff pass. At her brightly coloured <em>rainbow</em> lanyard. <em>Ah. </em>Alistair breathed a bit easier. </p><p>“Er, yes. Yes, he does. But he doesn't know, I haven’t been able to tell him.” Alistair said to his lap, relieved and a little frightened to admit it out loud. <em> He doesn’t have any idea that I’m head over heels in love with him.  </em></p><p>“You will, one day, I promise.” She said. “Maybe not here, but one day. He’s in the best place possible to recover, and the nurses tell me there is a bona fide angel in the eastern wing. They call him a guardian angel because the person he watches over seems to be defying the odds. Mostly I think they call him that because he keeps them in tea and biscuits.” She grinned at him conspiratorially. “But if there are angels on this Earth, then it would make sense to find one here, watching over Her flock, don’t you think?”</p><p>Alistair’s thought process stuttered. </p><p>He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Her?”</p><p>“Oh yes, God’s love has always felt like a mother’s love wouldn’t you say?” And Alistair had to admit it did. Fierce and gentle in equal measure, unconditional, scolding with one hand while the other forgave. “She has a plan for all of us, even if it can be hard to see it sometimes.” The priest said. “Her plan tends to be somewhat…”</p><p>“Ineffable?” Alistair offered, and she smiled at him in delight. He felt a wave of calm settle, the tiredness following closely behind. He wasn’t a big sleeper, but these last few days were testing his limits.</p><p>“Indeed. But She is always there, watching over us, guiding us, speaking to us through the words and actions of others.” The priest smiled again at him, and Alistair felt the drag of the wave of exhaustion as it readied itself to crash over him.</p><p>“I had better get back.” He said, excusing himself. “Thank you so much fath- er…”</p><p>“Faith. Bit on the nose but that’s nominative determinism for you. That and devout parents.” She shrugged.</p><p>“Faith. Indeed. Well, it’s a pleasure to have met you Faith, and thank you for your kind words, they have been a great help.” Alistair walked back towards Crowley’s room, her reassurances settling lightly on his aching heart. He only got lost once. </p><p>Crowley was still asleep when he got back. Unmoving, laid out still on the crisp sheets. He looked more human now the mask and the tube were removed, but Alistair had never seen him so still. He may not be dead, but he’d certainly had all the life drained out of him. Alistair could see the beginnings of a beard sprouting through, darker in colour than his hair, but unmistakably auburn. He considered trying to shave him so he could maintain his appearance, but it felt too intimate. </p><p>Alistair had no idea if Crowley even knew he was there. He could be sitting there for weeks and Crowley would never know. And then when he did eventually wake up (because he <em> would </em> wake up), then what? What if Crowley didn’t even want him there? How would he cope with that? He thought back to what Faith had said, about God talking to people through the actions of others. If She was trying to send him a message with all this, he wasn’t sure he understood what it was supposed to be. He hoped it was a good one. </p><p>“Alistair I can hear you overthinking from here.”</p><p>Alistair’s head shot up from where he sat in the armchair at the end of the bed, hoping to see those warm eyes, that devilish smirk, heavens he’d take a single eyebrow raised, anything really. But no. Crowley hadn’t moved beyond the steady rise and fall of his chest and occasional flickering of his eyes behind closed eyelids. Alistair longed to hold him, but touching him like that while he was unable to consent or otherwise was a line Alistair was not willing to cross. The legend of Sleeping Beauty had entered his mind and been thoroughly shooed back out again. Alistair was under no illusion that his life was a fairytale, and kissing a sleeping person without prior consent was all kinds of wrong as far as he was concerned. He contented himself with sweeping away the odd errant lock of hair from his face, his fingers lingering a little perhaps, but only enough to ensure Crowley was comfortable. </p><p>“Still not awake, huh?” Alistair was dragged back out of his thoughts to realise that the voice had come from his right. He turned to see Gabriel stood, silhouetted in the doorway, his body nearly filling the frame. His lavender coloured shirt was taught across his chest, sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, collar undone and tie hanging loose. He always had such an impeccable posture though, even with his hands in the pockets of his powder grey chinos. </p><p>Gabriel was looking down at Alistair where he sat in the armchair, clothes rumpled from being scrunched up, a pitying expression on his face. </p><p>“N-no. No signs of consciousness just yet. The doctors aren’t worried though, he was rather exhausted.” Alistair said. He didn’t particularly want Gabriel here, and was trying to work out what his motive was for this uncharacteristic visit. He didn’t think even Gabriel would be so callous as to chase him for copy, here, now.</p><p>“Alistair, why don’t you go home. Get some proper rest yourself. It’s been nearly a week and you can’t have slept much.” Gabriel moved into the room, and no longer seemed quite so imposing without the doorway framing him. “I can stay and call you if he wakes up.”</p><p>“Oh that’s very kind of you Gabriel, but I’m fine. Really.” It wasn’t like Gabriel to show altruism and Alistair was trying to work out what his angle was. </p><p>“Alistair, look. I’m getting it in the neck from Michael and Uriel.” <em> There it is. </em> “They insisted I came down here and tried to talk some sense into you. Go home. Have a shower, eat at a table. Sleep in a bed. Come back tomorrow. He’ll still be here, and if he wakes up I can call you. Go. I’ve got plenty of work to occupy myself with.” He said, gesturing to a satchel by his feet. </p><p>Alistair looked at him. It was highly unusual for Gabriel to turn up in person for something like this, but he really was rather tired, and a proper bed sounded exceedingly inviting right now. </p><p>“Well, if you’re sure.” Alistair wasn’t.</p><p>“I’m sure. Go on, go. It’ll be fine.”</p><p>Alistair looked at Crowley. One night wouldn’t hurt. He hadn’t shown any signs of waking up, so one night to recharge, and then he’d be back. He stood up. </p><p>“Thank you, Gabriel.” He said, and it felt odd. He took one last glance back as he closed the door. Just one night. Crowley would understand, surely?</p><p>By the time the taxi got him home it had been seven days since he saw his bed, and, for once, Alistair was asleep before his head even hit the pillow, so desperate was he for the rest. </p><p>Gabriel settled into the armchair with a stack of paper and began to read in the light from the floor lamp. After a couple of hours a nurse came in for the regular checks. </p><p>“Oh! Hello. You’re not Alistair, are you?” He said in the deliberately optimistic tones of one trained in bedside manner. </p><p>“No. Gabriel.” Gabriel said without looking up from his papers. </p><p>The nurse chuckled. “Oh, how funny! We always refer to Alistair as the ‘angel’ and here you are, named after one!”</p><p>“Yep, I’m the archangel fucking Gabriel.” He said in the bored tones of someone who has had the significance of their name pointed out to them a lot. </p><p>“Well. Quite.” The nurse turned and ran through the checks on a still sleeping Crowley, then left without a word. </p><p>A little after two in the morning, Gabriel heard a rustle from the bed, and the sensors started to beep and whirr. He looked up to see Crowley, eyes wide open, brows scrunched down, looking at him with open hostility. The heart monitor beeped a bit faster. Gabriel held his glare for a moment, before putting his papers back in his satchel with a sigh. </p><p>“Alistair…” Crowley rasped out of a dry and bruised throat.</p><p>“Absolutely fine. Not a single scratch. You did your job.” Gabriel told him, and if Crowley was a bit more awake he would have noticed the slightly odd tone. Crowley’s eyebrows relaxed a bit, but he kept his eyes on Gabriel.  </p><p>“Where’m I?” He asked.</p><p>“St. Thomas’ Hospital.” Gabriel said flatly. </p><p>“Fuck you doin’ here…” Crowley was aching all over, confused, stuck with needles, and in dire need of a drink of water that Gabriel was apparently not intending to offer. </p><p>“Hoping you’d wake up, obviously.” Gabriel said as he came to stand beside the bed. He had his hands in his pockets again. “Alistair gave up waiting, he has a life to get on with, so he asked me to talk to you instead.”</p><p>Crowley looked up at him, puzzled. Even in his groggy state that didn’t sound like something Alistair would do.</p><p>“Your task is complete, you got the bad guy, well done!” Gabriel gave him a sarcastic thumbs up. “But now it’s over, so you don’t need to hang around any more. Your services are no longer needed. You’re surplus to requirement Anthony.”</p><p>Crowley merely scowled. Talking hadn’t been pleasant. Gabriel sighed.</p><p>“Then there’s the other unfortunate business. Your little… indiscretion. Alistair says he is very sorry, but it was a mistake to have gotten involved with you, he sees that now, and he apologises for leading you on, but he’d much rather we all just forgot about it and moved on with our lives, yes? He has a book to write, and you have…” Gabriel leaned right over to give Crowley a searching look, his face close enough for Crowley to to study the lines around his eyes, the hint of stubble on his chin. </p><p>“What <em> do </em> you have, Anthony?” </p><p>Crowley could see the malice glittering in Gabriel’s curiously violet eyes. The monitor’s beeps skipped one, and Crowley scowled even harder. There wasn’t much he could do in this situation. He was too banged up and strangely breathless to take Gabriel on right now, but that wouldn’t stop him from thinking about it. His heart rate monitor sped up a bit more, and Gabriel slowly turned just his head from where he was still bent over the bed to look at the machine, then back to Crowley, and sneered. </p><p>“Now now, we don’t want you getting too excited, do we?” He straightened up and looked disdainfully down his nose at Crowley. “Anathema will have your stuff sent over. Don’t bother trying to contact Alistair, he will be retreating to finally get his next book written. You’ve been quite the distraction, Anthony, but if he wants to keep his contract he needs to write another book, and his time is rapidly running out.”</p><p>Gabriel walked over to the armchair and retrieved his bag and coat. </p><p>“Don’t you worry Anthony, you’ll be paid in full for your services. You did a good job! Seriously. You figured it out, all by yourself. But now you have to think of the greater good.” Gabriel said as he got himself ready to leave. He draped a cream coloured cashmere scarf around his neck before pulling on a soft grey coat. </p><p>“And when they eventually find Hastur I have a few words I’d like to say to him.” Gabriel said as he left, and Crowley was awake enough now to notice the tone. He didn’t sound intimidated by Hastur, there was no false bravado and hatred in his voice, it was… disappointment. Irritation. </p><p>Crowley was too full of morphine and God knows what else to think too much about that sort of thing right now though so he shelved it in favour of his heartbreak that the very thing he was dreading had come to pass. Alistair wanted nothing more to do with him. He hadn’t even been able to say goodbye. Part of him had expected to be asked to leave at the end of the job,<em> I mean, it’s not like Alistair felt anything more than basic attraction, right? </em>He wouldn’t kid himself, it was always going to end, he’d seen this happen before, but he had hoped to at least say goodbye to everyone. Pepper in particular had earned at least one juicy tidbit of spy craft for her efforts. Perhaps some choice self defence moves, although he suspected she needed no help in that department. He was going to miss her, she’d been like a sister to him.</p><p>Crowley ignored the little voice at the back of his head, the one that pointed out that, against his better judgements, he had still hoped, hadn’t he? Hoped that Alistair might ask him to stay, and this time he would say yes because how could life ever be boring when he could watch such a perfect creature all day? Or even, however implausible, he might somehow return his affections, because, at heart, Crowley was a romantic. No matter how hard he tried not to be, how much crap he lived through, seeing the very worst of people, somehow he failed time and time again to crush that little spark of hope. It had gotten him into trouble on several occasions, but this time it had really excelled itself. </p><p>Crowley reached out with a stiff arm and found the button that summoned a nurse. He needed a distraction. And a drink. </p><p>Unfortunately the nurse in question, once they had gotten over their joy at finding him awake, and Crowley’s disappointment that he was allowed nothing stronger than water, only seemed to want to talk about the lovely angel of a man who had been watching over him all this time, and wasn’t it a shame he had to go just as he woke up, and who was that grumpy Gabriel bloke anyway? For a man with such an inspiring name he had been singularly uninspired by his namesake ifyouknowwhatImean. </p><p>The doctors had been called as soon as they knew he had woken up so Crowley had to go through all the rigmarole of them checking his wound, asking him lots of questions about his pain levels, checking his mental faculties, and so on and so forth. Finally satisfied he hadn’t sustained any long term damage, they left him be for a bit. Well, after it seemed just about everyone else working on the ward came to meet ‘the dashing hero’ that they seemed to have heard so much about. They all seemed very disappointed that Alistair had missed him waking up, apparently there had been some anticipation about what would occur when he did. Crowley didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth. </p><p>The nurses returned with some toast, which he devoured, surprising even himself with the speed. Once he’d proved he could keep it down they removed one of his cannulas and brought back more substantial food, a rather stern nurse staying with him as he ate.</p><p>“We didn’t go to all this effort keeping you alive for you to choke on my watch, laddie.” She said, arms folded and giving him a stern look until he slowed down.</p><p>Crowley eventually managed to get a porter to help him get his bag, and switched on his phone, after they located a spare charger and a socket that wasn’t being occupied by one of his many beeping devices. He was somewhat surprised to find a week had passed while he’d been laid up. </p><p>There were a few messages from Pepper, telling him he had better pull through otherwise she’d hunt him down in Hell itself and kick his arse, followed by a few more that sounded less confident. He’d clearly been close this time then. The last message she had sent in obvious frustration was from yesterday, telling him to ‘wake the fuck up, you selfish arsehole’. <em> Well, at least Pepper still likes me. I think.  </em></p><p>The only other thing on his phone was a voicemail. He kept his number very private and changed it frequently, so it was no surprise that there weren’t many calls. He called the mailbox. Out came the clipped tones of one R. P. Tyler.</p><p><em> “Crowley old chap, did some more digging into Alistair’s estate like you requested and I found something that might be important. Bit complicated, so best if I tell you properly rather than leave it on your voicemail. Call me when you get this. Ta-ra. </em>”</p><p>The message had been left the previous week, just before the awards ceremony had been due to start. Crowley vaguely remembered getting a call and diverting it to voicemail to avoid distraction, so it must have been that. He wondered what the information could possibly be. If he’d answered that call, would he have been able to prevent what happened? </p><p>
  <em> No. Don’t think like that. Don’t play the ‘if’ game. It won’t change anything. It didn’t last time.  </em>
</p><p>Crowley looked at the clock. Four in the morning. R.P. would not be impressed at being woken up, so he would have to wait until a more civilised hour to call him back. So much for a distraction then. </p><p>Crowley thought about going back to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was Alistair. The last time he’d seen him, he’d been terrified, and stained with blood. <em> Probably mine </em> , Crowley thought in a detached way. Besides, he’d been asleep for a week already, he couldn’t possibly need more now that he was finally awake. He tried to sit up but his chest and back screamed in agony at him. <em> Well that’s what happens when you jump in front of a bullet, dickhead. </em></p><p>He knew he shouldn’t but he trawled through the news coverage from the awards night. Mostly conjecture, a lot of overly dramatic language, and some shaky images of Alistair getting into the back of an Ambulance, utterly covered in blood. Crowley had to remind himself that it was his blood, and Alistair was fine. He’d asked the hospital staff if Alistair had needed any medical treatment, but they all gave him the same look and explained that they couldn’t divulge Alistair’s personal medical information to him, beyond the fact that none of them had noticed any dressings on him. </p><p>The news articles also informed him that Alistair had been named the winner of this year’s Booker prize, and Crowley was pleased for him, although he wished he could have congratulated him in person. </p><p>In another article he found some more general shots of the carnage that the event had descended into after he’d departed so dramatically. Pepper popped up in one, looking far more scared than she would ever admit to. He briefly chuckled at the thought of her face when she saw the image, stopping rather quickly as the pain in his chest flared quite spectacularly. </p><p>Another press shot showed the outside, and he spotted Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub in the background leaving together, because why let a little drama like attempted murder get in the way of a casual fuck? </p><p>Carmine had written a sensational piece on the evening, mentioning him in a positive light fortunately. Well, positive for his professional image, anyway. Crowley ran through his memory of that evening. He couldn’t work out why Ligur would have done it. He must have been hired to do it, he had no reason otherwise, but hired by whom? It wasn’t unusual for him to run several jobs at the same time, although Crowley hadn’t realised they’d branched out into contract killings. </p><p><em> Let’s see, there was Ligur behind the pillar, mad dash onto the stage, flying leap tackling Alistair to the ground, which is when it got harder to breathe, then Hastur. Ligur was standing over Alistair, so remodelled Hastur’s nose, lunged again, practical knife skills demonstration, manhandled by security until Alistair went full beautiful bastard on them and if I hadn’t been losing blood at a fair old rate I might have had enough left over to express how fucking hot that was, then… then… </em>then all he remembered was Alistair’s face looking down at him with an expression that didn’t belong there. It was not how he wanted to remember him, not the way he’d wanted to part with him (he hadn’t wanted to part with him at all), but this was what Alistair wanted, so for once in this whole ridiculous assignment, Crowley would be professional and walk away. </p><p>At least he could walk, this time, right? </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Are we all suitably hating Gabriel now?</p><p>The table decoration: <a href="http://www.avictorian.com/flowers/flowernames.html">I took the meanings from here.</a> I'd have loved to put some aconite in, but I can't imagine anyone would be daft enough to put this in an arrangement that was being used for a table decoration. </p><p>The hospital<br/>So it is possible on some wards to pay extra for a private room. Whether they have this on the Victoria High Dependency Unit at St. Thomas Hospital (which is where I presume he would end up) is doubtful, but it works for the story so for now they do. The chances of Alistair actually being allowed to stay are even less seeing as he's not family, but let's just assume he's highly persuasive, and perhaps more economical with the truth than he is with donations to the hospital trust. </p><p>The description of Crowley's recovery is about as accurate as I can make it. Pneumothorax is quite varied in it's effect, and there's not a lot on treating a traumatic pneumothorax so I went with an average. </p><p>St Thomas' doesn't have a roof garden, but plenty of other London hospitals do, so I upgraded them. </p><p>I'm not sure how widespread the idea is globally but in NHS hospitals staff can wear a rainbow badge or lanyard to signify that members of the LGBT+ community are safe with them, hence Alistair relaxed at the sight of Faith's lanyard.</p><p>Alistair spent six days by Crowley's bedside. Who remembers their Genesis 1? 😋</p><p>As for the happy ending, I never said it would be smooth sailing, did I?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Working Hard.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well done to all of you who guessed it was that fucker Gabriel! Now, let's find out the why...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Gabriel! But… you… where?” Alistair stepped off the bottom step, put down his bag and looked eagerly behind Gabriel for the slouch that shunned all social etiquette. It was seven in the morning, and Alistair had been about to leave to go back to Crowley’s bedside after a much-needed few hours in his own bed. </p><p>“Where’s Crowley?” He asked desperately as a wave of dread settled low in his chest at the absence of the wilful nonchalance he’d missed so keenly. </p><p>Gabriel gave him a sorrowful look and clasped his shoulders, and Alistair felt his heart squeeze almost painfully in his chest. <em> No... </em></p><p>“I’m sorry Alistair.” </p><p>He crumbled, his vision swimming, all other sounds drowned out by the rushing of his own blood in his ears. His body felt numb, as if he wasn’t quite inside it any more, watching from a distance. Gabriel’s hands, although unwelcome, were keeping him from collapsing backwards onto the stairs as he fought with the news he’d just been given. He knew he shouldn’t have left, he should have stayed. Done something. Anything, just been there if that’s all he could do. Perhaps if he’d been there… </p><p>Gabriel still seemed to be talking, his low voice rumbling around the cacophony in Alistair’s head. He tried to focus on the words. </p><p>“…so I’m sure you can understand why he has asked that you don’t try and contact him.”</p><p>“Contact him? Wait, what? He’s not dead?!” Alistair blurted out. Hope rising, the desolation of thinking Crowley dead and the elation of finding him not to be in such short succession clashed horribly, leaving Alistair confused and feeling slightly sick.</p><p>“Dead? No. Of course he’s alive. Do try to listen more Alistair, you know I hate having to repeat myself. He woke up in the night. He asked me to tell you that now his job is done he needs to take some time off to heal before moving on to his next assignment. In the light of your… ‘indiscretions’,” Gabriel sneered but Alistair wasn’t seeing anything past the guilty images in his head right now, “<em> throughout </em> his time here, he thought it more appropriate if I took his belongings back to him. He said to tell you to not come looking for him while he recovers. So!” Gabriel let go of Alistair’s shoulders and straightened up, all traces of concern vanishing. “Now you can concentrate on getting me that first draft without any distractions! Being a Booker prize winner doesn’t get you out of the fact that we’re on a deadline, remember? And you've already wasted so much time.”</p><p>Gabriel flashed him a poor facsimile of a smile, clapped him on the shoulder again just a bit too firmly, and strode off to the kitchen. He had a brief chat with the others to let them know of the news, before going back downstairs to Crowley’s- no, to the guest bedroom in the basement. Gabriel returned after a little while with Crowley’s bags full of his belongings and left. </p><p>Alistair hadn’t moved from his spot at the bottom of the stairs where he was staring at the white and blue pattern of the tiles. He should have known better. He shouldn’t have hoped. He looked at his own bag next to his feet, took a deep breath, and calmly turned around and walked back to his bedroom. He nearly made it before the first sob escaped. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The police came back when they found out Crowley was awake. They conducted their interview in his room with the ward matron frowning on from the corner. She’d taken a shine to Crowley (women of a certain age and disposition tended to whether he liked it or not) and was not about to let anyone upset him while he was under her care. The detective leading the interview seemed to concur with that sentiment and Crowley was left wondering who the current Police and Crime commissioner was and if he’d ever been assigned to them. </p><p>The hospital staff seemed so disappointed when Crowley was eventually discharged. They’d given up asking when Alistair would be back, but seemed to have held onto the hope that he would be there to pick him up. When he wasn’t, they insisted he let them book him a taxi. It was a fairly sedate fifteen minute journey back to Mayfair, the driver making the ride as smooth as possible. He sensed that Crowley wasn’t in the mood to talk, even going so far as to switch the radio off when he glanced back and saw Crowley’s expression as Bono began to sing ‘With or Without You’. Lamenting the sunglasses lost in the struggle, Crowley tipped the driver far more than was necessary when he brought Crowley’s bags up to the flat for him. </p><p>The first thing that Crowley did when he got inside was check on his plants. He prowled around the room, studiously ignoring the rug in the centre, and the memories that came with it of Alistair spread out in ecstasy beneath him, softly lit and surrounded by greenery. His watering system had done its job, and there were only a couple of plants that needed a stern talking to about their posture. Not that his heart was really in it, what with it lying shattered on a hospital floor. His bag with all his belongings had turned up at the hospital three days ago, but Alistair had not. No visitors, no phone calls, not even a message. From anyone. Nothing. He tried to tell himself it was just like every other assignment, but the truth was, it wasn’t. For once Crowley had felt like part of something. He’d tentatively let them in, telling himself the risk was worth it this time, and yet again he’d been thrown away. So yes he was disappointed. Disappointed but not surprised. </p><p>One glance at his bank account told him he had been paid in full, but he didn’t want any of the ridiculous fee he had demanded. It just reminded him that he hadn’t wanted this job in the first place, and maybe he had been right.  </p><p>Fresh sheets spared him from the smell of Alistair in his bed, but the memories of the way he had caressed him into oblivion on those memory foam-topped pocket springs plagued him to the point where he had to give up and go and sleep on the sofa, despite the way his chest protested. </p><p>Crowley lay there on his hard, leather sofa, staring into the dark. His fear had been right. Alistair had seen the side of him that got unleashed when everything else had failed, the beast he kept locked up inside, and Alistair had clearly decided he wanted nothing to do with the cursed hell thing that Crowley really was. </p><p>Early the next morning his phone rang and woke him up. He answered it in the manner it deserved, to discover the hospital had put him on welfare calls for at least the first week. Apparently they didn’t like the idea of him being on his own. Well neither did he, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. The nurse had responded to his suggestion of where she could shove the welfare calls with the assurance that they would happen whether he liked it or not, and he should answer them because he wouldn’t like what happened if he didn’t. Turns out they had no qualms about sending the police to perform the welfare check in person and they tended to get excited and get out the Big Red Key. Crowley relented. </p><p>It was two more days of definitely not moping before he realised he had never called R. P. Tyler back. He was going to need him again at some point, so he should at least call out of courtesy. Let him know what had happened.</p><p>“Crowley!” R.P. sounded delighted when he answered. “Glad to hear you’re still with us, you rapscallion. You had us worried for a while there!”</p><p>“Hey R.P., yeah, thanks. Listen, I’m up to my eyeballs on drugs right now, but I picked up your voicemail when I woke up-”</p><p>“Voicemail? Let me… Ah yes, the inheritance thing. Bit of an odd one that, quite a difficult thing to spot! Jolly complicated will, but you know I have a nose for that sort of thing. It’s got the usual blabber about his house and financial estate going to his nearest relative, some specifics about bequests for his staff and various charities etcetera, but it’s his literary estate where it all goes a bit technical. It’s in his contract, you see. Upon his death the rights to his books revert back to the publisher. Whoever is his editor would have full control over it all. Merchandising, cover artwork, even film and television rights! His editor could make all the decisions by themselves. Currently the buck stops with Alistair, and he has, thus far, staunchly resisted any form of merchandising or screen adaptation.”</p><p>“So, his editor effectively inherits the rights to the books?!” Crowley asked. He wasn’t quite sure why he asked, seeing as it was made very clear that this was no longer his business, but Gabriel’s sneering face made him all sorts of angry. </p><p>“Oh yes, and with the books’ popularity I would imagine there’s quite a lot of money to be made if they decided to branch out. I’ll send it all over to you.”</p><p>Money. How terribly cliché. </p><p>“Not to mention that Alistair’s contract is due to end this summer, and he would be free to renegotiate, or even leave…”</p><p>Well that explained the timing. Crowley connected a few Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub shaped dots.</p><p>“R.P., I know I say it a lot, but you are a genius.” Crowley said, and he could hear the faux-modesty radiating down the phone as he hung up.</p><p>Gabriel. He’d taken an instant dislike to the arsehole and apparently it had been wholly justified. Lord Beelzebub just so happened to own a production company and with Gabriel in charge of granting rights, they could make a fortune. Not to mention Gabriel would control a merchandising empire. It was simple greed. Gabriel wanted money and power and Alistair was getting in the way of that. With the contract up for renewal Gabriel was running out of time to convince Alistair to change his mind, so he’d apparently decided to just get rid of him. </p><p>It did throw what Gabriel told him about Alistair somewhat into doubt, but surely if Alistair wanted to see him, he would have come to the hospital. Crowley trusted Pepper to give Alistair the push he needed, unless… Unless he truly didn’t want to. Crowley had to extinguish that little flicker of hope before it truly caught and dragged him down somewhere he didn’t want to end up. </p><p>Regardless of his own heartbreak, he couldn’t let Gabriel get away with this. Alistair wasn’t in any immediate danger fortunately. Lord Beelzebub was smart, and would have stamped on any ideas to keep trying to hurt him now the police were sniffing around and they had Ligur’s body in evidence. With the murder attempt so public it was impossible for them to make it all just disappear, but it was easy enough for a Lord to plausibly deny any involvement with one link like that. Any more attempts would start to raise more suspicion than they could reasonably deflect. But Crowley wasn’t about to let them get away with this.  </p><p>However, if Lord Beelzebub was involved then the police were not a good first choice. He needed someone who wouldn’t have any conflicts of interest. Someone ruthless who would be able to take this all the way. Someone… with a voice that they weren’t afraid to use. After a moment’s thought he got out his laptop, pulled up the files from R.P and started tapping away. </p><p>The next day Carmine Zuigiber opened her email and found one from an address she didn’t recognise. </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <span class="u">  </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>ADangerousMan666@protonmail.com</b>
  </p>
  <p>Subject: <em> Something to titillate you </em></p>
  <p>
    <span class="u"> <em>  </em> </span>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>A burner account. <em> Well, this should be interesting... </em></p><p>She decided to open it, scanned quickly down the body of the email, then grinned with all her perfect teeth, her eyes sparkling with something akin to delight as she caught the scent of the hunt. <br/><br/><br/></p><hr/><p> </p><p>After Gabriel left, taking every last piece of Crowley with him, Alistair threw himself into finishing his book. He barely left his library, often eating up there as well, firmly ensconced behind his trusty, old laptop. </p><p>Right now he needed to not think about how his calm, comfortable life had changed beyond all recognition. How he’d been on the run from a killer, taken a chance and fallen stupidly and apparently irrevocably in love, and had his heart shattered once again. Crowley, that deliciously complex enigma all packaged up in sinfully tight trousers and bonfire hair, Crowley, who had literally taken a bullet for him and nearly died in the process, Crowley, the person who had slithered his way into Alistair’s life and his heart, had fulfilled his contract and then dropped him like a soggy pancake. Someone had hated Alistair enough to want him dead, and the man he loved wanted nothing to do with him, not even to say goodbye. </p><p>His parents arrived after a few days, his mother livid that she’d been kept in the dark about it all and had had to hear about it on the news. They stayed for a week. While they brought some comfort, his mother’s badgering to see a therapist on account of his low mood was unhelpful. They didn’t know it was nothing to do with the shooting, and he wasn’t about to tell them that he’d gone and fallen in love with his bodyguard. He couldn’t bear telling his parents about yet another failure, or the thought of what his mother might do if she found out what Crowley had done. He rode the week out, partly glad for the distraction, but also itching to get back to his laptop. </p><p>After they left he shut himself away again to write. He wrote because feeling productive eased his pain. He lost himself in the story and churned out page upon page of world building, character revealing, plot twisting prose in the hope that it would have sufficient value in it to start to rebuild his sense of self. That there would be something in all those words that people might like, or at least think was interesting. Anything that could make him feel less worthless. Anything to prove to himself that he was enough. The story had definitely taken a darker turn, but perhaps it was time for it to mature. Writing was his therapy and he wrote like a man possessed. Gabriel had made it clear that he expected a manuscript soon, before the contract renewal if he wanted to continue to be published, and this was one task he was determined not to fail. </p><p>May arrived, and Anathema, Pepper and Tracy each tried to coax him out for his birthday with no success. He had no interest in celebrating anything. In the end they compromised. Tracy cooked his favourite food, and they all had dinner together in the dining room. Alistair sat and listened to the chatter drifting around the table. Thirty-eight. Thirty-eight and here he was, hiding away from the world still. So desperate for love that he couldn’t even let a man into the house without falling for him. Thirty-eight and utterly pathetic. Desperately lonely, but at least he wasn’t alone. </p><p>Writing swiftly resumed, and, face buried in his laptop, he wrote good chapters, he wrote dubious scenes that he would later re-write several times before scrapping and starting again, he wrote entire characters in and out of existence. Anathema was inundated with questions, scribbled on paper or emailed, about various topics that may or may not end up being relevant and she did her best to keep up with them all, roping Pepper in occasionally. </p><p>Alistair barely noticed spring roll into summer, marked by now twice-weekly calls from Gabriel chasing the elusive first draft. Michael seemed to be talking to him a lot, certainly. And she didn’t look too happy about it. Screen adaptations and merchandising was mentioned once again, and once again Alistair gave a flat no. </p><p>Alistair took to appearing suddenly throughout the day and shoving paper under the nose of the first person he saw to ask them what they thought (they always thought it was good). Often they would ask obvious questions that he’d been too close to the story to spot and he’d bustle back up the stairs with purpose because suddenly he could see how the plot would work and he absolutely had to get it written down now before he lost it. </p><p>In late June the Booker committee tried to arrange another event, and Alistair managed to talk them down to just a press briefing. He attended, pictures were taken, and he managed to hold himself together enough to give a small speech. At first glance he was quite clearly thanking all the people in the venue and hospital that helped him that evening, but if you knew what he knew, then the vast bulk of the speech was directed at one person alone. However, with the charmingly confusing ambiguity in the English language between the singular and plural versions of ‘you’, it slipped through unnoticed. Michael unfortunately insisted he stay until the end, when all he wanted to do was get back to his laptop and immerse himself in someone else’s life, and by the time they went home he was thoroughly exhausted.  </p><p>To cap it all off the police came by a few days later with more questions. They seemed to want to know about his personal estate and contracts, presumably establishing motives. He let Anathema deal with the details, only needing to answer a few questions directly. </p><p>And then, just as July started to wind down to make space for August and everything felt as if it were melting in the heat, he sat back from the keyboard. The final scene had been typed and given a once-over to spot any glaring plot holes. He’d run himself into the ground to get it out before the contract renewal came up, before his publishing house decided he was too slow and decided not to renew it and he lost everything. And now here it was. He wondered what Crowley would think of it. He was the only person he really wanted to show it to, wherever he was. </p><p>He picked the laptop up, folded it under one arm, and ventured downstairs to find Anathema. She was in her study, having a very serious looking conversation with Newt. </p><p>“Oh! Alistair! Does this mean you’re finished?” She asked brightly as he appeared in the doorframe. </p><p>“Er, yes my dear, I think so. First draft, anyway.” He looked guiltily at Newt. “I know it’s a bit later than we would have liked. I suppose Gabriel sent you to hurry me along?” </p><p>Anathema and Newt shared a nervous glance. </p><p>“Actually, no. It appears Gabriel has been, uh, moved. You’re getting a new editor.” Anathema said carefully. </p><p>“I’m being reassigned as well.” Newt said, watching Alistair carefully. “Your new editor’s name is Mary Hodges. She’s fairly new to publishing, but very shrewd. She can be a bit strict though. Reminds me of a nun, except for the fact she talks so much. Anyway, she sent me here to let you know and arrange a time when she can meet you.”</p><p>Alistair wasn’t unduly upset over the loss of Gabriel, but he was nervous about working with someone new. Better the devil you know, and all that. Fortunately Mary Hodges turned out to be firm, but fair, and with a tendency to coo over little things like baby goats, and, for some reason, bats and snakes. She took an instant liking to Anathema’s occult tendencies and to Pepper’s determination. She tolerated Michael and avoided Uriel where possible. She and Tracy could talk for <em> hours </em>. </p><p>When she’d read his first draft through she took Alistair out ‘to celebrate’. His concern that his contract might not be renewed seemed to leave her quite baffled. </p><p>“You’re one of our bestselling authors Alistair, why on Earth do you think we wouldn’t fight to keep you?”</p><p>Once the new contract was signed (it had some changes from the previous one at Anathema’s insistence, but he wasn’t really sure what they were) and Alistair felt he could breathe a little easier, the edits came thick and fast. Alistair was quietly surprised to find that he agreed with most of Mary’s suggestions, and as summer slipped into autumn she began to accompany them all on their weekly family lunch. Alistair still felt the void where Crowley should have been, feeling like he was just about to slouch in with a ‘hey Angel!’ and no hint whatsoever of an apology or explanation. He fought hard not to shift his chair so there was a space next to him every time. </p><p>September  was unusually warm, and marked the start of the apple harvest. He normally went home each year to help, and being the owner he really ought to show his face, but he just couldn't face it this year. He made his apologies to his parents, blaming the timing of the book writing, and hoped they’d understand. </p><p>Autumn flew by in a flurry of reds and yellows and oranges, the cold wind and overnight frosts promising winter was on the way. Alistair tried, but everywhere he saw the bright red leaves of the trees hunkering down for the leaner months he thought of Crowley. Of his vibrant, spiky locks. Every shade he saw was automatically compared to Crowley’s hair, every golden leaf to his bronze eyes, and everything fell short. He even thought he saw him a few times on his brief forays out and about, just glimpses out of the corner of his eye that set his heart racing, but when he turned it was just the usual Autumnal glow. He wondered if Crowley liked this time of year, or if he suffered as the weather got colder. He tried not to wonder what Crowley was doing now, who he was with, where he was going or if he’d had to jump in front of another hateful weapon in the line of duty. He tried to hope that he was holed up somewhere warm, looking after some stuffy dignitary at a tedious conference somewhere. Something dull and safe. But he knew deep down that Crowley would be out there in the world doing something completely ridiculous and living life to the full, while he had been left behind. He refused to look for him in the background of paparazzi photos, in case he found him. </p><p>Bonfire night was hard. Flames were everywhere, bringing back painful memories. Every smoking bonfire took him back to that moment on the stage, the moment where he identified the wood smoke smell, right before it was overpowered by the blood. Alistair retreated back to his room to pore over cover ideas and potential artists until it was all over. He’d enjoyed the fireworks in previous years, but this year the thought of being out in the dark, facing roaring flames, surrounded by strangers, flashing lights, and loud explosions was just too much to handle. While the others went out to celebrate at his insistence, Alistair found himself curled up on the Chesterfield sofa in the library clutching a soft charcoal t-shirt that had been in the laundry cycle when Gabriel arrived back from the hospital all those months ago. Really, he should have sent it back as soon as he found it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it and had kept it guiltily hidden away in his bedside drawer ever since. The t-shirt may have lost Crowley's scent through the wash, but the blanket on the sofa still retained a hint of it, and Alistair was feeling too fragile to be able to resist tonight.</p><p>Just before Christmas, the book was declared finished. They all went out to celebrate, and Alistair actually enjoyed himself. Later that night he felt oddly guilty for having managed to put Crowley out of his mind for one night. <em> Perhaps, </em> he wondered, <em> this is where I start to finally let him go…  </em></p><p>Christmas itself was a slightly subdued affair. Alistair was wrung out from writing, and the mood in the house was quieter than usual with Pepper away with her mum, but they still exchanged gifts and tried to enjoy themselves. </p><p>Alistair skipped the New Year’s celebrations completely. He half-heartedly thought about making a resolution, but lacking the confidence he’d actually keep it, he decided it was best not to bother.</p><p>Michael had sent copies of the manuscript out before Christmas to a choice selection of reviewers to gather quotes, and Alistair was bewildered at the wonderful comments that began to trickle back. It was all very lovely, but really he only wanted one person’s opinion on what he had written, and he was never going to get that now. He thought about sending a copy to his flat, but that would be ignoring Crowley's request for no contact, and it was a line that Alistair didn’t want to cross because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop. <em>So much for letting go...</em></p><p>Finally, the book began production, and orders were opened to the trade. As requested, Alistair received the first book that came off the line, placing it proudly on the shelf with his other works. Pre-orders opened up not long after, and an official date was set for the launch party in April, shortly before his birthday. </p><p>Michael sent him back to Ozwald with Uriel, Tracy and Pepper by his side again. Ozwald only looked over Alistair’s shoulder once, but he was astute enough not to broach the subject, instead focusing on delivering his usual bespoke, beautifully tailored perfection. Alistair chose a light wool, the colour of crème caramel. The waistcoat was to be a couple of shades darker, in a more textured fabric. They looked through the style book, Alistair pointed out anything that appealed to him and Ozwald sketched it together as they chatted. Alistair tried, but he just couldn’t see how it would all fit together. <em> Crowley would have been able to see it </em>, he thought, before wishing he hadn’t as all the longing he kept shored up threatened to crash down on him right then and there on that blasted Chesterfield sofa. It had been roughly a year since Crowley first sauntered into his life, and he had had to keep himself very busy in order to not think about him constantly and miss him with every fibre of his being. Mercifully the others hadn’t mentioned anything, and while the normality helped a bit, he couldn’t help feeling lonely in his grief. </p><p>Pepper and Tracy declared the design for the suit utterly divine, and he trusted them so he took a risk and said yes to the drawing in front of him, hoping it would turn out as wonderful as Ozwald promised. </p><p>And thus the countdown began. The hype began and the media circuits started up, with Michael dragging him all over the place to build excitement for the launch party. Fortunately Michael handled the planning of that directly with Mary so Alistair stayed out of it as much as possible, surfacing only as and when he was needed, or to veto the odd outlandish gimmick in passing. </p><p>Instead, he caught up on his reading. He was burnt out from the rush to get the book into production, so sank into his library as much as possible, deciding to work his way back through his Wodehouse collection. He definitely wasn’t hiding from the world, that would be silly. If anything he was hiding from himself, distracting himself with other people’s lives so he wouldn’t think of his own. The Devil may make work for idle hands, but a devilishly handsome serpent of a man was sauntering his way through his idle thoughts, so Alistair tried to make sure there weren’t any. </p><p>And he avoided his Chesterfield sofa. </p><p>Anathema kept him up to date with how everything was progressing, any details that needed ironing out, and when the mountain of books to be pre-signed would arrive, but she seemed distant lately. Not quite herself. Everyone in the household was on edge, and while it seemed a bit extreme for the launch event, Alistair couldn't think what else could have them all so worried. </p><p>A few days before the event he went back to pick up the suit and it was every bit as wonderful as he’d been promised. It was exquisitely comfortable, and somehow managed to make him look more confident than he felt. Although this time there was no red silk pocket lining. Not that he looked for it, of course. He told himself he wouldn’t feel upset over something so trivial. </p><p>Then somehow it was the morning of the launch, and Alistair was a bundle of nerves. He had to get through the day in the knowledge that in the evening he would be in a room with a lot of influential people, all there to investigate him and his story. There would be a lot of questions, and he probably wouldn’t want to answer most of them. </p><p>The day wore on, and he found himself wishing Crowley was there not just with him, but for him. He knew Uriel was competent in a blunt instrument sort of way, but he fervently wished that he had Crowley’s clever mind there as well, working out all the angles beforehand. Getting out the winged cufflinks and setting them on his bedside table ready for later, Alistair decided that if Crowley couldn’t be there in person, then he would be there in spirit, and it would have to do. </p><p>Everyone seemed tense over a late lunch. There were quiet conversations happening in corners around the house that stopped when Alistair drew near and he couldn’t help feeling like something was being kept from him. </p><p>At last it was time to get ready and Alistair moved on autopilot. He tried to re-tie his tartan bow tie for the third time before giving up and traipsing downstairs. Tracy took one look at him where he stood in the kitchen doorway and bustled over to sort it out with an affectionate roll of her eyes. She smoothed down his lapels and paused, looking at him.</p><p>“I’m so proud of you Mr. F.” She said quietly. “You’ve picked yourself up again and ploughed on with life, writing another wonderful book. You've got such strength, Alistair, I don’t know how you do it.” Tracy’s eyes were shining. She patted his chest and turned around quickly to finish her own preparations. Alistair’s shoulders sagged. His hands came up to fiddle with his signet ring. He didn’t feel strong. He felt like he was hiding from life, just pretending on the outside while inside he felt shrivelled and bereft. An important part of his soul was missing, and he felt like he was just barely coasting along without it. It had been months since he last saw Crowley, and he was no closer to getting over him than he was to quitting everything and becoming a monk. </p><p>At long last they all gathered in the entrance hall, heels clicking quietly on the tiles. The mood was subdued, but everyone had made an effort. Uriel was in a white suit with narrow trousers, the boxy blazer’s sleeves scrunched up to her elbows. It was effortlessly stylish without looking like she was trying. Alistair wondered if Ozwald had measured her without him noticing. </p><p>Michael had her folder under her arm and was on duty tonight and itching to get started. She wore pale trousers in a soft mushroom colour, with a white blouse, the ruffles spilling out over the neck of the matching waistcoat.</p><p>In a slight departure from her usual flamboyant style, Tracy had a long, flared, dusky pink linen skirt and matching jacket. Underneath was a white blouse with a large bow at the neck. The skirt was held up with a light brown belt and she had matching boots on her feet. </p><p>Jumping down the stairs in twos and threes, Pepper was in skin tight black trousers and Alistair had had a little moment when he saw them, but she had paired it with a loose black camisole that cut low at the front and black leather biker jacket over the top.</p><p>Anathema brought her usual occult style in a deep purple, ankle length, full skirt that swished as she moved, with a black lace shirt over a matching bodice. She was unusually subdued and looked very tired under her smokey eye makeup. </p><p>Conveniently being held at the Foyles flagship store on Charing Cross Road, the launch event was a mere five minute walk (perhaps seven in heels, maybe ten if one has been imbibing) south of the house. Alistair was amazed that Mary and Michael had managed to book such a legendary location, and rather nervous at the thought of not filling it. </p><p>As it turned out, his worries were entirely unfounded. The event space was on the top floor, one side looking down over the atrium and the six offset stories of books beneath them. They’d thoughtfully set up a display by the entrance on the ground floor of all his previous work, and he was rather alarmed to find a photo of him larger than life and dominating one corner by a stack of the books he had pre-signed. He could hear the noise coming from the top floor, and it certainly sounded like a lot of people. Entering the mirrored lift, he could see his grim expression staring back at him, and it was a fairly accurate representation of how he felt. As they all stepped out into the hallway on the sixth floor, Alistair stopped suddenly.</p><p>“You alright Alistair?” Pepper asked carefully from his left. </p><p>“I, um, I wasn’t expecting this many people my dear.” He said, his voice quivering slightly. Pepper merely smiled and took him by the arm to lead him through the open doorways to the auditorium. The ceiling was low, with all the services exposed. Silver ducting tangled with white conduit against a pale grey painted ceiling, the walls and the two boxy columns a stark white. The windows on the outside wall were obscured by white roller blinds, the opposite side comprising of a metal trimmed, glass balcony edge that overlooked the atrium, with a large, red curtain that could be pulled over to obscure the view if so desired. For tonight they left it open so the guests could look down at the display below. Tall circular tables were dotted throughout the space, covered in the same rich red fabric, holding napkins and the occasional empty glass that the roving waiting staff hadn’t got to yet. The floor seemed to be a light wooden laminate, but Alistair couldn’t really tell due to the sheer number of people in the room. The noise level up here was so loud that the speakers in the corner were quite drowned out, despite trying their best. </p><p>“Now will you believe us when we say you’re a good writer? Hmmm?” Pepper asked. “C’mon, let’s get you a drink. Ugh I’m going to need two actually, I’ve just seen Tracy heading for that Shadwell bloke and I think he actually smiled. Although it might have been a grimace, hard to tell. He doesn’t seem to have had much practise at smiling.” She grumbled as they edged around the room to the table set up to be the bar. Alistair could see lots of very influential people who he assumed were all here so they could see who else was here. There were also the reviewers that they’d sent his manuscript to, and a whole host of other people that he vaguely recognised. Alistair didn’t have many friends. He knew a lot of people, yes, research tended to introduce one to all sorts. But friends were a rare commodity in his life. </p><p>Uriel appeared at the bar next to him. </p><p>“All the usual suspects here tonight.” She said, looking across Alistair at Pepper. “Can’t see any major risks.”</p><p>Gin and tonic in hand, Alistair steeled himself to face the crowds, Uriel on one side, Pepper on the other. Two forces of nature to prop him up. Pepper’s spark and Uriel’s calm resonating within him, giving him confidence.</p><p>But they weren’t Crowley. He would feel safer with Crowley. He wouldn’t care one fig what all these people thought, as long as he could get Crowley to smile. Oh yes, he and Crowley could have a lot of fun in a room like this. </p><p>But Crowley wasn’t here.</p><p>And so he went forth as Michael announced his arrival, feeling like one half of a double act, hopping along and making the best of it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was all he had, and he would have to get used to it. Anathema seemed to be feeling the same herself, her usual drive apparently parked up for the evening. </p><p>“No Newt?” Alistair asked, mildly surprised. Newt had become a regular fixture at the house, although Alistair did realise it was a while since he’d seen him last. </p><p>“No, not tonight.” Anathema said sadly, but offered no explanation. She was spared from any further questions by Michael dragging Alistair away to schmooze some industry bigwigs. </p><p>Despite his misgivings, the evening progressed well. Alistair made lots of small talk, and mercifully every time anyone brought up the Booker awards night, Uriel or Pepper would manage to derail that conversation with ever more inventive methods. He made a metal note to thank them properly later. He didn’t want to think about that night. Not here, in front of all these almost-strangers. </p><p>In a break in the flow of conversations he wandered over to the balcony that looked down to the entrance. He was surprised to see it full of people, all coming in apparently to buy his new book. Then someone looked up and saw him, and shouted his name. Suddenly everyone on the ground floor was poking each other and pointing up, some even taking their phones out and taking pictures. Michael always encouraged him to connect with his fans so he leaned his arm on the railing to hold his drink, and tentatively waved back. He pressed forward to wave at the people closer to the wall below, thankful for the five floors and several bouncers between them. He didn’t notice as he leant on his cufflink. Didn’t feel as he squeezed it between his wrist and the brass coloured metal of the railing edge. </p><p>Fans suitably acknowledged, he was about to retreat when a flashing light caught his eye and he heard a device of some sort making a lot of noise, struggling to be heard above the people chatter and the music behind him. It stood out against the fast beat of Whitney requesting a ‘higher love’, whatever that meant. He glanced over towards the source on sheer instinct. It was coming from one end of the ground floor near where some staff were gathered, watching the crowd. </p><p>Alistair saw the ember-red hair first, and his heart skipped a beat. It was longer now. Almost down to his shoulders, with the top half pulled back into a small bun, and oh Lord how it suited him. He saw the face turn up towards him, shielded by an unmistakable pair of stylish sunglasses (those hadn’t changed at least), but even from here he could see the concern. All the breath left his body and it was only where it was caught between his chest and the railing, that stopped the drink falling from his hand.</p><p><em> Crowley </em>. </p><p>Crowley was here. </p><p>Crowley was downstairs.</p><p>Alistair didn’t even stop to think. He turned around and almost ran towards the lift, discarding his drink on the nearest table and ignoring everyone in his path. He was jabbing the lift button furiously when Uriel caught up with him. He huffed in frustration and darted towards the stairs at the back of the building before she could ask him just what the hell he was doing. </p><p>Alistair raced down the stairs, promising he would do more exercise in future, and burst onto the main floor through the double doors at the bottom, panting. The row of security turned around to look at him curiously, but made no move to stop him as he raced desperately though the displays of books, searching for any sign of hair like hellfire and coal-black clothes. He got to the place he’d last seen Crowley, trying not to acknowledge the sinking feeling in his chest that told him he was already too late. Crowley was gone. </p><p>Uriel caught up to him where he was stood, looking lost and frightened. The people there had clearly thought he’d come down to talk to them, and were crowding around him, holding out books to be signed. He looked at her, eyes wide and silently pleading, and she swooped in, arm around his shoulders, and led him away with an apology that he was needed upstairs urgently. A couple of shop security had come over and were helping to make sure nobody tried to follow. </p><p>Alistair was reeling. Why had Crowley come? What was he doing here? Why had he left when he saw him?</p><p>Uriel was frowning at him, a little bit annoyed at the sudden game of chase, but a lot worried at his uncharacteristic behaviour. She guided him into the lift.</p><p>“What the bloody hell was that?” Uriel demanded as the lift doors closed.</p><p>“Haven’t you done anything in your life that didn’t make much sense, except down in your stomach somewhere?” He asked, his voice a little distant as he stared at the floor.</p><p>Her silence was an answer in itself. </p><p>“Crowley was here.” He admitted with a sigh, looking up to catch her reflected gaze in the lift mirror.</p><p>Uriel paused, and looked back at him, confused. “Crowley? And you went after him?”</p><p>Alistair nodded. “I don’t know why he was here. Gabriel told me he wanted nothing more to do with me, but it was definitely him.”</p><p>The lift doors opened, and Alistair walked out to see Pepper and Anathema, their shoulders sagging with relief when they saw him. Uriel followed, but put a hand on his arm, stopping him before they rejoined the party. </p><p>“What do you mean Gabriel told you Crowley wanted nothing more to do with you? He told us it was you who wanted nothing more to do with Crowley, and we weren’t to mention him ever again.” Uriel said, watching him with searching eyes. </p><p>“You <em>what</em>?!” Pepper blurted out.</p><p>“Crowley. Crowley was here. That’s why I ran downstairs.” Alistair looked at the floor as he admitted his weakness, hoping they would understand and not make him say any more, then his brain repeated Uriel’s words back to him. “I’m sorry, what did you say Gabriel told you?” He looked up sharply, to three matching confused expressions.</p><p>“Gabriel told us you didn’t want to ever hear about Crowley again. He said Crowley said something horrid to you in the hospital and we weren’t to ever mention his name.” Anathema said slowly, studying his reaction. </p><p>“I- wh- no! No that’s not what happened at all! Crowley never woke up while I was there. Gabriel came and told me you had ordered him to make me come home and get some proper rest. Crowley woke up after I left. Gabriel said Crowley asked that we don’t try and contact him, that’s why Gabriel came to get his belongings. After everything, I never even got to say thank you. Or goodbye.” Alistair was confused. Confused, and rapidly becoming angry as he began to get the shape of something in his head. His hands were cycling between clenching at his sides and fiddling with his ring. He couldn’t understand why Gabriel would lie to them like that. He noticed the three ladies in front of him all share a look that he didn’t have the energy to try and decipher right now. </p><p>“Alistair, If Gabriel told <em> us </em> that you didn’t want <em> Crowley </em> , and told <em> you </em> that Crowley didn’t want <em> you </em> ,” Pepper said carefully, “then <em> what did he tell Crowley </em>?”</p><p>The question slammed down in front of Alistair’s thought process like a gigantic, disembodied, cartoon foot. Impossible to ignore and raising a significant number of extra questions as it did so. </p><p>What <em> did </em> he tell Crowley? If Gabriel had lied to them, then it wasn’t much of a stretch to think he’d lied to Crowley too. If Gabriel told Crowley to stay away, then maybe… Maybe what? Alistair didn’t know what might have been, and it had plagued him whenever he found himself too idle. Perhaps it was time he found out. </p><p>The door to the stairs opened, and a lady in Foyles uniform stepped out holding a pot full of flowers. </p><p>“Ah, Mr Fell, this was left downstairs for you. I’ll put them to one side for you to pick up later.” She said. </p><p>“Wait!” Alistair nearly shouted out as she turned towards the offices. Alistair darted forward to find the card. It simply said ‘Congratulations Angel’ in a spiky, angular handwriting. The ‘g’ had a looping tail. There was no signature, but he didn’t need one to know where these had come from. Forget-me-nots and Snake’s Head Fritillaries. </p><p>Crowley. </p><p>Alistair tucked the card back in, and thanked the lady as she took the pot away for later. He turned to the three ladies who were watching him intently, and tugged his waistcoat back into place. </p><p>“Ladies. It seems we have been played for suckers. In the morning I intend to find Crowley, and find out just what the hell Gabriel was playing at.” And with that he headed back into his party with his head held higher than it had been in months. It would be common at this point to say a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, but in Alistair’s case it felt more like a weight had been attached. He was no longer floating around untethered and lost, drifting through life. Now he had purpose. He had a direction. And, finally feeling grounded for the first time in almost a year, he actually enjoyed the rest of his launch party, with the promise of, at the very least, some closure hopefully by the end of the week. </p><p>“Should we tell him?” Pepper asked Uriel after Alistair had walked away. </p><p>“No. Let him enjoy tonight. We will have that conversation tomorrow, just like we planned.” Uriel said. </p><p>“Tomorrow.” Anathema repeated, and with a heavy sigh, followed the others to rejoin the room. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Firstly, I'm sorry. Secondly, yay Alistair has found the braincell! But there's still more to unravel. </p><p> </p><p>The Big Red Key is the name the police give to their single-person ram. Basically a heavy, metal cylinder about a foot and a half long, with two handles, that's used for breaking down doors. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enforcer_(battering_ram)">As you might have guessed, it's painted red.</a></p><p>I set Alistair's birthday at 7th May. <a href="https://www.astrology-zodiac-signs.com/zodiac-signs/taurus/">He sounds like a Taurus</a></p><p>Yay Sister Mary!</p><p>Foyles Flagship store looks amazing. Everything I've described is real, the only adjustment was not using the stairs in the main atrium area because they're very visible and it wouldn't work if Crowley saw him running down to him, as romantic as that would be.</p><p>Speaking of which, man bun Crowley! Had to get him in. If you go with the assumption that hair grows about a centimetre a month, and Crowley didn't cut his hair whilst working for Alistair, then it should be just around shoulder length I think. </p><p>There's no extra meaning to the flowers bar the obvious, and Forget-me-nots being Alistair's favourite.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Hardly Working</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Crowley cursed himself. He was stupid, and weak, and he never should have gone to that blasted book launch, and especially not with flowers and a hand written note. All he’d wanted to do was get in, deliver the flowers, pick up a copy of the book (signed if he could get one), maybe see Alistair from afar, and get out. But no. Alistair had seen him, and he’d looked so shocked it had made Crowley’s blood run cold. He was supposed to be calm under pressure. He was supposed to be discreet. He was supposed to be an SAS trained bodyguard for fuck’s sake. Elite. Invisible until he decided otherwise. But apparently now he was the man who withered from a single look. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And what the fuck was up with the panic alarm going off?!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Striding briskly away from Foyles, and away from Soho, Crowley berated himself for being so sentimental. The sound of a busker with a saxophone caught his attention up ahead and he nearly ran past it when he realised the song it was playing. Annie Lennox could be overflown with bliss about an angel playing with her heart as much as she liked, Alistair wasn’t playing with his heart, he was crushing it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should have changed his phone number, unpaired it from the cufflinks, done all his usual post-job admin, then none of this would have happened. But he didn’t do it. He didn’t, because he couldn’t bear to lose the last little connection he had to his angel. Couldn’t let go of the hope that one day Alistair would call him. So the phone number had stayed, and now he was in even more of a mess. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bag full of his belongings turned up at the hospital, but Alistair didn’t. The message was quite clear. Alistair had seen him for the monster he really was, seen the violence and destruction he was capable of, and been repulsed by it. It was no surprise when Gabriel confirmed what he’d already suspected would happen. He wasn’t worthy of someone like Alistair.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The physiotherapist at the hospital had given him exercises to do to help his lung expand, and he did them as best he could in the knowledge that he needed this body to do his job. Experience had taught him that skimping only set you up for more problems later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The occupational therapist had also stopped by, and her face when he told her what he did for a living would have had him breathless with laughter if he’d been capable. As it was, he could manage the breathless part. The poor woman had nearly quit on the spot, but he talked her down to just signing him off until the six-week check, with strict instructions to not start training again until the physios said he could. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doctors warned him against flying or scuba diving for at least the next three months, and he had to fight down the belligerent impulse to book a diving holiday in the Red Sea. They also informed him his long body meant he would always be at risk of recurrence, and gave him a list of things to look out for. When he’d thought about souvenirs from his time with Alistair, this was not the kind of thing he’d had in mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The week after the hospital released him passed in a haze of pain medication, breathlessness, and check ups. He put up with the daily welfare calls that usually came at what he considered an antisocial time of the morning. The nurse took his grumbles and ever more inventive yet hollow threats as a sign that he was gaining strength. As far as she was concerned the longer he could gripe for, the better his lung capacity must be. In between questioning him on whether he was eating enough, and some highly personal questions about his bodily functions, she gently reminded him that she could still have the police perform a different sort of welfare check if he preferred. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the quieter moments Crowley found himself watching old movies and listening to far too much Whitney Houston. For a person used to constantly moving, constantly working towards something, he was struggling with having his normal level of activity thwarted by his recovering lung, and felt trapped. With all the pent up, restless energy, and binging on cheesy eighties pop, he really was starting to understand what it felt like to be in a powder keg and giving off sparks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The trip out to get his stitches removed was a breath of fresh air, or at least as fresh as London ever got, even if the nurse kept telling him off for fidgeting while she worked. His fiddling hands managed to unscrew the adjustment bolt on the seat before he realised what he was doing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Paxton called and Crowley hadn’t known what to expect when he answered. The hesitancy he heard in Paxton’s voice when he asked how he was, caught him off guard, and his sarcastic reply was given the long sigh it deserved. But Paxton seemed to be reassured by it. He’d called to inform Crowley that Eric’s body had finally been released, now they’d matched Ligur’s DNA to the evidence found, and his cremation was going to be in a few days' time. Crowley was told under no uncertain terms that if he didn’t get his arse down there with at least a week’s worth of clothes then Paxton would come and get him himself. So Crowley turned up at the pub, a pale facsimile of himself and feeling just as lost as every other time his feet had led him there, and Paxton took him in like the stray he was, yet again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The service had been well attended. Eric had been popular, and he was given the send off he deserved for his bravery. Crowley hid at the back, avoiding people’s attention, avoiding the risk of seeing the judgement there. He’d caused this. If he hadn’t chosen somewhere so personal to him, Ligur would never have found them. This was all his fault. He brought the trouble down here. He did this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A neatly dressed, elderly woman approached him as they all began to file out. He vaguely recognised her. She did something to do with the church. Crowley braced himself as best he could. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m told the… the heathen who did this was found.” She pinned him with a fierce glare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah... He... Well… I found him, actually.” Crowley hoped she wouldn’t ask for any more details. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope you gave that little shit what he deserved then. I hope you made it hurt.” She said, her features going dark. Crowley backed away unconsciously. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh… well he won’t be getting back up, shall we say.” Her eyes flashed with righteous glee. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent! I always knew you’d come out alright in the end, Anthony. You’re a good lad.” She nodded at his shocked expression, and tottered off with the others. Crowley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Afterwards, once everyone had gone home, Crowley had his first drink in months. He wasn't supposed to, what with the painkillers and all, but it was a funeral for fuck’s sake. He was due some extenuating circumstances. Paxton was nearby tidying up the bar, still the same routine after all these years. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This pub, Paxton, had always been there when Crowley needed him. They’d never really spoken much beyond what was necessary, but that was why Crowley liked it. He’d always been able to just come and sit there, no questions asked, no expectations, and sometimes Paxton would have time for him and sometimes he wouldn’t, but he was never turned away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley had resolved long ago to just take whatever Paxton would give, and never ask for more. He had a tendency to lose people important to him, and keeping Paxton at arms length would keep him safe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point Dog had found his way onto Crowley's lap and it was only the nudge to his hand when he stopped that made Crowley realise he’d been scratching Dog’s head. And then it hit him. He’d nearly died. That could have easily been his funeral. Who would even be there? Crowley could count on one hand the number of people he actually thought might bother turning up, and at least one of those would be just to check he was really dead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dog jumped down off his lap and ran off into the area behind the bar. Crowley sighed heavily, tipped his head back against the wooden beam behind him and shut his eyes. He was tired, sore, and getting thoroughly fed up of this job. A nudge to his shin and a whine, and he looked down to see Dog giving him his best begging eyes with a blue rubber bone between his jaws. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t play with you Dog, doctor’s orders.” He told him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not trying to play with you,” Paxton said as he wiped down the bar, “he’s trying to give it to you. It’s his favourite. He can tell you’re upset.” And that was another thing. Paxton always just seemed to know stuff without being told. And he had no qualms about using it against him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now there were tears running down Crowley’s face because his bloody bastard dog was giving him his favourite sodding toy in the whole crappy world to try and cheer him up and people just didn’t do things like that for arseholes like him. Kindness was not something he ever deserved. But here was Dog, no motives, just being his pure and innocent self, and Crowley had no idea what to do with love like that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, ‘s your toy Dog, you keep it.” He said, managing to keep his voice mostly level. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s decided you need it more right now and you’d better take it or he’ll start bringing you all sorts of things until something works.” Paxton warned. “Some of the stuff he finds I had no idea I even owned and that’s assuming he’s not added thievery to his record.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley sighed and patted his lap. Dog jumped up and dropped the toy in his hand. It was slippery with drool, and stuck with bits of fluff. Lovely. It’s the thought that counts, eh?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now you've got to put it in your mouth or he’ll think you don’t like it. It’s a chew toy.” Paxton said. Crowley turned to look at him and without his sunglasses Paxton was treated to the entirety of his horrified expression. Paxton snorted out a laugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I wish I’d had a camera for that. Your face is priceless. I’m joking! Just hold it for a bit, smile, and then give it back to him.” Paxton chuckled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley turned back to Dog. “Dog, I think we’re going to have to get good, </span>
  <em>
    <span>old</span>
  </em>
  <span> Uncle Paxton back for that one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oi! Less of the ‘old’, you. And I’d like to see you try and get one over me. You forget how long I’ve known you, young man, and with age comes wisdom. There’s very little that gets past me these days.” Paxton told him, waving a dishcloth in his general direction. Like that was going to do anything but spur him on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The nurse phoned one last time, and he’d been about to call her bluff on her threat to call in the police when he realised that he really didn’t want them going through his flat with all its souvenirs. Maybe it was Paxton’s narrowed eyes watching him, but he ended up begrudgingly apologising and thanking her for putting up with him. She nearly did call the police at that, and it took putting Paxton on the phone to confirm his mental state and that he'd just been guilt-tripped by a higher authority, for her to calm down and sign him off. Crowley resolved to be extra mean in getting Paxton back to make up for it. Perhaps a good dose of mischief was what he needed to get over Alistair. Fuck knows nothing else was helping.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the end Crowley stayed two weeks. He reasoned that the air quality was better, and taking Dog out for a walk every day would be good for them both. As much as Crowley loved the city, he had to admit it was calming to be out in nature a bit more, even if he was still reminded of Alistair and Eric every day they went out on the Downs, and every night when he went back to that little room and its pine bed. He wondered if Alistair would like having a dog. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As for revenge, it turned out Paxton was just as sharp as he’d claimed and Crowley had to draw on quite a bit of his ingenuity to catch him out. After several failed attempts he roped in some regulars one night whilst helping behind the bar, who were more than happy to keep adjusting the clock on the wall every time Paxton turned away. It was past one in the morning before he eventually cottoned on and chucked them all out, laughing. The victory was bittersweet because Crowley just really wished Alistair had been there to see it. He’d have done that crinkly eye thing which wasn’t quite a smile, but wanted to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mission accomplished and his wounded pride thoroughly revenged, Crowley got restless again, and seeing as his six week check up was coming up in London and he seemed in good physical health, Paxton let him go. He still called around once a week for months afterwards. For someone who had grumbled every time about watching Golden Girls, Paxton seemed to have a lot of questions about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Back in London and given the all-clear Crowley had tried to get back to his life, but without the distraction of pub life and dog walking he slipped back into realising just how truly alone he was. The world just didn’t seem to make sense without Alistair. He missed him, missed his smile, missed his solid presence, missed the way Alistair seemed to anchor him. Crowley missed the sound of his voice, even when he was complaining about something. He even missed his ridiculous, fussy habits, and the way he stubbornly refused to be anything other than who he was. Fuck, he missed him so much it hurt, and his coping strategies for the long, silent evenings weren’t working. He was waking up too many mornings in a bed that was going to be empty no matter what he did, with no memory of the night before, and nursing a near-permanent hangover he thoroughly deserved. It had to stop. For his first broken heart, he was handling it spectacularly badly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley ended up just laid there late into the night, staring at the number and name on the screen, torn between the terror of calling him and hearing the rejection and the pain of never knowing what if… Indecision and fear prevailed every time while he stared at one of the many photos he’d taken when Alistair wasn’t looking. Hurried things, often not straight and frequently blurred. He captured Alistair’s shoulders from the back, his profile, the top of his head while he was lost in a book. Pieces of a whole, and not a single one had his eyes in them. Nothing to help him remember if they were grey or blue. Crowley fell asleep thinking of all the ways he’d got so lost and Alistair was the only thing he knew that felt right. He was going out of his mind and he didn’t even care. The angel was under his skin and he was unravelling from the intensity of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The physios encouraged him to continue the exercise and ramp up slowly, so he had walked aimlessly around Soho, dipping in and out of the clubs hoping to catch sight of Alistair but to no avail. There were a couple of times where he thought he’d caught a glimpse of pale hair over the crowd, but it never turned out to be him. A voice would have Crowley suddenly turn around and search, but he could never track it down. Even St. James’ Park was horribly devoid of angels with blond hair and an aversion to modern fashion. It was an obsession, and the only way he could reconcile himself with his behaviour was not allowing himself to use any of his professional skills to actually stalk the man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because he could. If he wanted to. He knew the codes for the security system, knew where the cameras pointed, knew all the weak spots. He could get Alistair’s itinerary and wait, unobserved, outside his home. Fuck, he could get hold of a drone so quiet Alistair would never know it was hovering outside his window, watching his every move, watching him as he slept. He could </span>
  <em>
    <span>be </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the room whilst Alistair slept, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alistair would never know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And that scared him. Crowley could do all that, and more (he had before, in a professional capacity), and the thought of using those skills on Alistair like that left him feeling physically sick and wanting to crawl out of his own head. He was poison and Alistair deserved better than that. Alistair deserved better than what he was already doing, Lord knows he knew that, but he could tell himself it was OK to just happen to bump into him in passing, by sheer chance. It was OK to happen to see him from across the park, to just look. It was OK to leave it up to Lady Luck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was not OK to mount a sophisticated and professional covert operation to ascertain his movements, then sit and wait for him to show up. And it was definitely not OK to infiltrate his house under cover of darkness just to hear the snuffling sounds he made while he slept. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stood one morning, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror and resolutely ignoring his latest scar, Crowley realised he was getting out of control. What the hell was he doing with his life?! This wasn’t like him. He’d always assumed you decided one day that you wanted to share your space with someone, then went out and found someone to love, or that you could at least live with. It was never something he thought he’d ever want, not something he’d ever looked for, but then he’d met Alistair who had proven him wrong, and his life had shifted so fundamentally that he didn’t even recognise it any more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d never needed anyone else like this. He’d never craved another person there in the quiet moments, never wanted anyone to interrupt his space. But right now he had a lot of quiet moments that suddenly seemed so much quieter than before and all he wanted was to look up and see Alistair sat there with his nose in a book. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This had to stop. He had to get his old life back because he sure as shit wasn’t going to get the one he was yearning for. Life wasn’t a fairy tale and he wasn’t getting a happy ending. What he needed, was a project. He started looking up architects. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then at the tail end of June the gits at the Booker awards had decided to do a press event to try and give Alistair the limelight he was so unceremoniously torn from, so Crowley had to sit through a video of Alistair looking like he was hating every moment of it whilst dishing out thanks to all sorts of people for their help. He was mentioned, briefly, not by name, and Crowley couldn't decide if it was a mercy or a cruelty to deny him the sound of his name from Alistair’s lips. But there he was, bundled in with everyone else, only a slight pause in Alistair’s voice to show he noticed him at all. Crowley limited himself to playing it once a day, often to fall asleep to, when his brain was loose enough to almost think that the speech was directed at him, thanks to the wonderful flexibility of English pronouns. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His birthday came and went.</span>
  <span> He never bothered to celebrate it anyway, but he’d had a wild thought once upon a time that it might be nice for someone else to actually know when it was. It would help if he’d told them, he supposed… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Summer dragged slowly on, and Crowley tried to wean himself off that damn video. He tried to get back into work, taking on one-off gigs that only required a few hours, some odd bits of consulting work, telling himself it was because he needed to start back slowly and give his body a chance. Deep down, though, he knew he was holding on to the hope that Alistair would call him and he wanted to be nearby. But Alistair didn’t call, and the hope began to dwindle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the end of the month word reached him that Gabriel had finally been arrested. Carmine had done what she did best and found all sorts of juicy information, publishing just enough to make it impossible for the police not to act. Lord Beelzebub was also under suspicion, and Hastur was nowhere to be found, but Gabriel was in a cell. It was a start. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley decided he had to get out of London. He tried to distract himself with the passing of the seasons, watching the coats getting gradually darker and thicker, noting the first announcements of the dreaded leaves on the line, but it didn’t help. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel fought the charges. Lord Beelzebub denied any involvement, blaming it all on Gabriel. Gabriel claimed she was using him for information and blamed it all on her. They’d covered their tracks well, and the police couldn’t find Hastur to confirm either way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Paxton said nothing when he turned up again, just handed him a key, eyeing his lengthening hair. Crowley had always wondered if he would like longer hair, but with one thing or another he’d never been able to grow it out. Turned out his hair curled. Who knew? Silver linings and all that. He didn’t stay in Sussex too long, but it was enough to recharge a bit, get some paperwork sorted, a survey or two. Paxton told him to hang on to the key. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Halloween was normally Crowley’s favourite time of year. He liked the spooky atmosphere, liked getting the snake contacts out and scaring the living shit out of people. He revelled in the mischief and the tricks (he always asked for a trick). But he didn’t feel up to it this year. He tried to distract himself with paperwork. So much bloody paperwork. Why did planning permission have to be so complicated?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bonfire night was a resolute nope. He spent it in bed, under the duvet, watching a cartoon series about rabbits on his phone and trolling the flat-earthers and anti-vaxxers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Christmas was spent in London, unable to face the thought of all the happy people in the pub and reluctant to impose on Paxton any more than he already had. So this year it was another solo affair watching Golden Girls back to back and eating enough curry and ice cream for a small strike team. Normally his Christmases were spent alone when he wasn’t working, enjoying the solitude. Normally he didn’t wake up wishing he had someone else there to open presents with. To buy presents for. To decorate a tree and get excited with. But this last year had been anything but ‘normal’.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On New Year’s Eve he stood on his balcony watching fireworks erupt all over the city. He raised his glass of Caol Ila at midnight, silently toasting Alistair, wherever he was, wishing him a happy year and absolutely not acknowledging how wet his cheeks felt. He would try and stay out of London after tonight, wait until it hurt less. He had other places to be anyway now that things were getting moving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the book launch was too tempting. Here was a publicly advertised place he knew Alistair would be, and a time as well. There would be so many other people he could slip in and out unnoticed, maybe even catch sight of him from afar and see how he was doing. He ached for another glimpse of those eyes the colour of eternity, but he would suffice with seeing his pale curls, the broad expanse of his shoulders, his hands fluttering around. He missed the way his face betrayed his every emotion, the frowns that almost hid the mirth behind them and the smiles that lit up everything within a hundred metre radius. He missed seeing the way Alistair moved, gliding silently around like a cloud, albeit one that carried the sun with it. He even missed being snuck up on. He just… missed him, OK?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He really, really missed the sound of Alistair’s voice. Even when it was chastising him. Yeah, OK, mostly when it was chastising him. That special way Alistair had of using words that sounded very much like being told off, but the tone and those crinkles around his eyes suggested it wasn’t what he really thought at all and Crowley loved it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should never have been seen. That was not the plan. He’d been so pathetically desperate he got sloppy and he had paid the price, but he just couldn’t resist the opportunity to see him one more time before the trial. Before they had to stand in the same room and tell the world all his failures. Before he had to go there and admit everything because there was no way Gabriel or Lord Beelzebub’s legal team would miss out on the opportunity to drag him through the mud for getting too involved with his client, and let’s face it, ‘I love him, your honour’ from the witness stand while Alistair looked on, horrified, was not exactly how he’d imagined it would go</span>
  <em>
    <span>. Let’s just hope Hastur turns up.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Crowley found himself at his own front door it was late into the night. He’d stalked around London for a bit, but he just couldn’t get Alistair’s expression out of his head. The look of shock right before he‘d fled at the sight of him. He never should have brought the flowers, much less left such a blatant note with them, but it was fairly obvious at this stage in his life that his sense of self preservation was dysfunctional. It had been a year, and he still couldn’t move on. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pathetic. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stripping off and throwing himself down on his bed, Crowley resigned himself to the constant ache he now felt in his chest that had nothing to do with his age. He was only in the city for the night, just for the launch event. He hated it here now. Everything made him think of Alistair. The two pieces of the silk handkerchief were still sat on the coffee table where he’d left them and he knew he should throw them away, but he somehow never got round to it so there they were still, bittersweet, dusty, and shameful, as the detritus of life built up around them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tomorrow he would get a new sim card, and head back out of London again. Tomorrow, he would stop all this hiding and start getting in control of his life again, because clearly Alistair was a lost cause. He’d bolted at the sight of him for fuck’s sake. Can’t get any clearer than that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tomorrow. He would get his arse in gear tomorrow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He coiled his body tightly in the bed, curling around his reignited pain and heartbreak and constricting ever tighter as if to squeeze the life out of his stupid feelings. Squeeze out the hope he’d been fruitlessly harbouring all this time. Tomorrow was a new day, a new life. He would let himself have tonight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley slept badly and gave up somewhere around seven. Shooing the last of his despair deep down where he couldn’t hear it any more, he shoved some more clothes into a black leather weekend bag and, after a final check on his plants (“Not long now you lot, hang in there.”), he headed out into the streets of London. He went into the first phone shop he found open and bought a new sim card. As he walked down through Green Park and past the Palace to Victoria Station, he fired off a few text messages, notifying those that needed to know of the number change.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Settling himself on the train into a set of four seats with his bag taking up the seat next to him, Crowley slumped, legs splayed out under the table. He watched all sorts of people out the window, all rushing down the platform to board the train before it departed. All sorts of lives so much more in control than his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ten minutes after leaving the station his phone rang. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey R.P., what’s up? Like the new number? ‘M on a train by the way if I lose you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yes, very you with all the sixes you devil. I bet you’re feeling very pleased with yourself!” Crowley grinned. “Now, if you don’t mind, you reprobate, I actually have some news for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s grin vanished and he shifted into something closer to sitting in his chair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go on…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think we should talk about this one in person. Shall I come up to you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, ‘m heading out your way. Swing by later yeh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Indeed. Call me when you’re close.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair woke up late the next morning feeling surprisingly fresh. It hadn’t been too late a night, but it had been a busy evening, certainly. For a man who liked a quiet life, it had taken rather a lot out of him. There had been quite a number of people who wanted to talk to him and even old ‘Sergeant’ Shadwell had been nearly civil, although that could have been to do with the furiously batting eyelashes Tracy was aiming his way. And yet, despite all the emotional drain, he had slept better than he had done in months and therefore this morning felt really quite alive. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Today he was going to do what he should have done months ago. Today he was going to call Crowley, finally hear his honeyed drawl again, and the thrill that thought gave him had him nearly glowing with excitement. But first, breakfast. Calling your one-time-lover-slash-bodyguard-who-you-are-head-over-heels-for-clichés-be-damned after so long was not something to be undertaken on an empty stomach. Once dressed, he made his way down to the kitchen in search of tea and sustenance. Normally he and Tracy had the kitchen to themselves most of the morning so he was really quite surprised to find everyone already there, all looking very serious where they sat or leant around the island in the centre. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! Good morning. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” He said, making his way to the kettle with a gentle smile on his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We, um, we need to talk to you Alistair.” Anathema said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Righty-ho, talk away.” Alistair replied, his back to them as he reached for his tea, humming to himself quietly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No dear.” Tracy said gently, appearing beside him. “We need you to sit down for this one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair was a little perplexed, but his mood was too good this morning to be derailed quite so easily. He poured the hot water into his winged mug, smiling slightly as he caught sight of its dark twin hiding in the shadows at the back of the cupboard. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Soon. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The yin to his yang. The West to his East, he was unbalanced without him. But that would all be sorted out today. He would find out whatever it was that they wanted to tell him, then go straight to his phone and call Crowley. He was so close to getting his life back he could almost taste it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alistair?” Uriel asked, startling him out of his daydream. He’d let his mind wander and they were clearly waiting for him. Even Michael was watching him, for once without her phone in her hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh very well. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What was it you wanted to tell me then?” He huffed in irritation. He just wanted to get upstairs and make that call. He could feel the day slipping away already and his fingers were twitching at the thought of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ladies all looked at each other, each uncertain and unwilling to make the first move. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Pepper snapped. “It’s about Gabriel, Alistair. About why he lied to you, why he lied to all of us. It was him. He’s the arsehole, it was him trying to kill you. Him and that creepy Lord Beelzebub were plotting together so he could get control of the rights to your books, and her film company could make the movies. He told that horrible Lord where you were, and she set those goons on you. It was all about the money.” Pepper watched Alistair carefully as he sat very still, wary after her outburst. She watched as his genial smile stayed in place for a few moments before his brain fully absorbed what he had just been told. She watched as the smile slipped. It fell away from his eyes first, their twinkle fading before the sides of his mouth lost their grip and sank inwards. His eyebrows crept towards each other, while his gaze dropped to the granite worktop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m... Sorry, I think I must have misheard you my dear.” He said weakly, looking back up at Pepper. She looked thoroughly miserable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh Alistair, sweetheart, I’m afraid it’s true.” Tracy said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. “That ghastly reporter, ‘Cochineal' or whatever her name was, she worked it all out. Gabriel got arrested, and Mary stepped in, and you seemed so much happier that we didn’t want to upset you, not with the new book going so well. And, well, you didn’t go back to the hospital you see, so we had no reason to doubt Gabriel, but we didn’t know! Oh Mr F. we’re ever so sorry. It should have been obvious when he was arrested that it was a lie, but you still didn’t talk about him, you see, and I thought… well I thought it was Oscar all over again. You didn’t talk about him either. Oh love, if we’d have known we’d’ve done everything we could. Now Gabriel has been charged with two counts of murder, but he and that frightful Lord are fighting this all the way to a trial so you need to know as they will probably want you to appear.” Alistair felt his grip on the world slip again as her words sunk in. He didn’t like Gabriel, but he had trusted him, and apparently Gabriel hated him enough to want him dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No, that’s not quite right though, is it?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Gabriel wanted to make the screen adaptation that Alistair had been so dead-set against. Alistair was never happy with the way they wanted to adapt it, but Gabriel only saw the lost revenue. And he thought so little of Alistair that he saw no wrong in killing him to get him out of the way. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gabriel killed Eric...</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not to worry, my dear, these things happen.” Alistair said, the brightness in his voice only slightly strangled by the rising torrents of confusion and frustration. He felt numb. Standing up calmly, he walked out the door towards the stairs, but he seemed to be suffering from a disconnect somewhere. His body movements felt slightly out of sync from what his brain was telling him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing else mattered now, he needed Crowley. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket with hands that felt like they belonged to someone else, focusing on the names scrolling past until he got to the one he’d spent many hours hovering his finger over in crippling indecision in the last year. Focusing on the daft but utterly endearing selfie that Crowley had commandeered his phone to take, and made it so it came up when he called Alistair. But he hadn’t called. Alistair finally tapped the number as he sat down on the end of his bed, listening to his heart pounding in his ears and fiddling with the tartan cover on the duvet as the phone dialled the one person who would be able to help him make sense of all of this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The high pitched chatter of the dialling tones stopped and he waited for the sound of ringing. After one too many beats of silence, someone spoke. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re sorry, this number has been disconnected.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then the line went dead.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The bus from Brighton dropped Crowley by the National Trust building at the top of the valley. It was a short walk from there to the Shepherd and Dog, past the lane where the cottage used to be. He paused looking down over the valley, the point at which they’d been allowed to scatter Eric’s ashes. Quite a few had come to say goodbye. The wind had caught the ashes and scattered them far and wide in the place Eric had loved. There would be a bench here soon. Crowley stopped every time he went past. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d called R.P. when his train got into Brighton, so when he walked into the pub there he was, sat at the bar deep in conversation with Paxton. Or deep in lecture by the looks of it. Dog jumped up, barking, when Crowley came in, and he greeted him with a pat on the head as he sat down in the stool next to R.P.. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ronald Percival Tyler, are you off on one again? Like the ‘tasche...” Crowley teased, and Paxton took the opportunity to surreptitiously relocate to the other end of the bar in his distraction, after nodding a greeting to Crowley. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Crowley old chap, I was just regaling the barkeep here with some fascinating anecdotes of my prior adventures. We were just discussing your habit of setting cars on fire.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley rolled his eyes at that, and sprawled even more on his stool, noting with satisfaction and a smirk, the way R.P. scowled at him from under his moustache as he did so. One time. He’d done that </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> time. OK so it had been R.P.’s car, but he’d replaced it!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good grief is that what you young scoundrels are calling ‘sitting’ these days?” R.P. remarked, his tweed-clad torso ram-rod straight on his stool. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley laughed at this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Young? Not so much. Scoundrel…? Eeeehhh, probably. It’s a fair cop. Now did you have something you wanted to discuss, or did you just come to insult me?” Crowley asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, of course. I have some news on our little search. The insults are just an added bonus.” Crowley groaned and slouched even further against the bar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, come on then, what have you found that warranted delivery in person?” He asked, waving his hands at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Him.” R.P. said, turning serious. “I found him. In Lower Tadfield of all places. He’s there, Crowley, Hastur’s there now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley felt his body stiffen, and Dog whined at his feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Local police?” He asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Barely.” R.P. replied. “It’s a small village, the closest major police force is in Oxford. They wouldn’t stand a chance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And that’s if they’re not already compromised.” Crowley took a deep breath and huffed it out. “Looks like we’re doing this the hard way then.” He said darkly, as a predatory grin spread across his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took a few days for Crowley to get himself organised. He had a few bits to sort in Fulking while he planned his trip, then he had to go back up to London to collect a few choice items. He took the opportunity to check on his plants and sort the mail that he’d ignored the previous week. He had been adrift the last few months, never really settling into anything. Nothing felt real, nothing felt permanent. All he could think about was Alistair. What could have been, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> have been. He was half living in a fantasy world in his own head and spending a lot of time sprawled on his sofa watching crap TV and avoiding his real life. He’d tried to get over Alistair, really he had. But the man was insatiable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But now? Now he had a purpose. Now he had an aim. Now he could be useful, and so he drove to Lower Tadfield in the black Mini, running over his plan as he went. Crowley rarely used the Mini, but he didn’t think it would be sensible trying to board a train with the contents of his wholly unremarkable black duffel bag. People might get the wrong idea, and the British Transport Police could get a little funny when people went around carrying that sort of thing on their trains. So driving it was. He jabbed the radio button and AC/DC belted out ‘Back in Black’. Yeah, he was back, baby. He was on a mission, and he felt some of the old fizzle from before seep back into his body, waking up old reflexes and dusty, hibernating senses. The world always got a bit sharper when he had a mission. And this one was personal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The journey started smoothly, but then he hit a bit of traffic as he joined the A40 at Denham, tried to cut up towards Chorleywood and lost an hour fiddling around in country lanes, so by the time he reached Lower Tadfield he was thoroughly pissed off and had well and truly found out what the Mini was capable of. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lower Tadfield itself was ostentatiously quaint, with flint-walled houses all lined up like they were auditioning for a chocolate box lid. Against his wishes it was damping down his anger at the journey. It was the sort of place where you could reasonably expect bunting at some point, and maybe even some gingham. It probably entered the Britain in Bloom competition every year, and came out with a respectable spot. It was preposterous, it was nauseating, and Crowley knew Alistair would have loved it. But he was not here to sightsee. He was here to do a job. He left the car at the edge of the village, and opted to continue on foot. Sauntering down the main street and past the church, he came to a little shop with picnic benches outside. He got himself a strawberry lolly and settled down on one of the benches with his back to the wall, and waited. It was a small village, and people in small villages tended to notice strangers. But that was OK, Crowley could do strange. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t there long before he spotted someone lurking in the nearby churchyard. They made no move to get any closer, so Crowley waited. He fiddled with his watch, cycling through the various time zones until he got to the one that never seemed to work properly. He had no idea where it got its time from as it was resolutely always half an hour out, but repeatedly changing it back passed the time. He could wait. They couldn’t lurk there all night. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair had been fretting himself into knots. A trial. He would have to stand up in front of a judge and tell his story. The whole story. He thought he would be able to do it, until he thought about the fact that Gabriel would be there. He would have to do it in front of Gabriel, and even the thought of it was enough to make his palms sweat. Anathema had come to see him after he’d tried to call Crowley, and it turned out she’d had to cease all contact with Newt since he’d left that day because he came under suspicion as Gabriel’s assistant. His relationship with Anathema gave him access to Alistair’s schedule. Anathema had no doubts as to his innocence, but the legal team were taking no chances. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the fourth day Pepper had pointed out that Alistair knew where Crowley’s flat was, and he should stop moping and bloody well go over there and Sort This Out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what would you suggest, my dear? I stand outside with a… a… a boom box?” He’d retorted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck is a ‘boom box’ Alistair? In fact, no, I don’t want to know. Just go over there and talk to him like a grown-up.” She said, as if it were that simple. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not that simple Pepper. What if he doesn’t want to see me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She walked off and came back with a pen and a stack of paper, putting them firmly down in front of Alistair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a writer for fuck’s sake. Write him a letter!” And Alistair had to admit she had a point. And so he wrote. After several were screwed up in frustration, he stopped trying to think of what he wanted to say, and focused instead on what needed to be said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Crowley,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I do hope this letter finds you well, and I apologise if it is unwelcome, it is not my intention to intrude.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>First let me thank you ever so much for the flowers, I am amazed that you remembered my favourites! I have put them on the table in the library so I may look at them as I please. They seem happy there, but I must confess I do not have a good track record with plants. I still need that gardener.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I have been rather busy of late writing the book, so Gabriel’s unsavoury behaviour has only just been brought to my attention. In the wake of your visit to Foyles, it has also come to light that Gabriel was not entirely honest in the aftermath of your hospital stay, and regrettably we all believed him. He came to the house to tell me that you had woken up and expressed a wish for myself and my household not to contact you and to leave you to recover in peace. However, it appears he told my friends here that I was the one that harboured ill-will towards yourself, and that they were never to mention you again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In case you were in any doubt, I wished to assure you that this was not the case at all, and I feel overwhelming gratitude towards you for what you did that day. It was never my intention to cease contact with you. In fact, rather the opposite. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If it is, indeed, your wish to be left alone, then please disregard this letter. However, if it is the case that Gabriel has lied to you about my own intentions with regards to our ongoing contact, then you know where to find me. You can be assured of a warm welcome upon your arrival. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yours </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair stopped. Yours what? ‘Sincerely’ was too formal, ‘faithfully’ too familiar. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah. Of course. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yours,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Alistair</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because he was, and had been since the moment he set eyes on Crowley. Alistair put the letter in an envelope and stopped. He didn’t actually know Crowley’s address. He’d been to his flat, yes, but that didn’t mean he knew the postal address. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well you’ll just have to deliver it by hand then, won’t you.” Pepper had said. Alistair had baulked at the idea but when she herded him into the car he realised she was serious. Directing her as best he could from the memory of one night over a year ago, they eventually found the building by sheer chance, and Alistair headed inside. Then all too soon he was standing in front of Crowley’s door, with the letter burning a hole in his pocket and no clue what he was going to say when it opened. Heart pounding and mouth dry, he knocked. And waited. Just as he was about to give up, he noticed a bell to the right of the door, covered by a snake figure. It was preposterous and so very Crowley. He reached out to press the button, but jumped as he heard a door open behind him on the other side of the hallway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he turned, a woman came out. Younger than him, her soft brown hair falling in waves around her face. She was holding a variety of bags and looked as if she was about to head out on a long list of errands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! Hello. Are you looking for Anthony?” She asked brightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Er, yes, yes I am. Do you know if he’s in?” Alistair asked, tucking his fidgety fingers away behind his back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think so. He’s not been around much. I did see him briefly this week, although he had a bag so I think he’s gone again. He’s often gone for long periods of time with his work as I’m sure you know.” She said, locking her door and turning to study him. She held her bags defensively in front of her body, frowning slightly at him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes I’m, ah, familiar with his work.” Alistair told her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wonderful. And what do you do Mr…?” She asked in a rather pointed manner.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! I’m terribly sorry my dear! Fell. Mr Fell. Alistair. I’m an author actually. Crowley…. well, he worked for me recently. Well not so recently I suppose now...” Alistair said brightly to try and dissolve the tension. Of course Crowley was working again. Alistair just wanted to leave now. He wanted to go and wallow in his disappointment at home. Preferably with a large gin. But on hearing his answer the lady’s body language changed, her whole face lighting up and her hands dropping away to her sides. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alistair Fell? Oh of course! The shooting incident at the Ritz last year! My goodness it’s wonderful to finally meet you! Anthony has mentioned you. I’m so sorry, I should have realised it was you - it’s obvious now I think about it!” She said, gesturing at his clothing. “He did say you had a penchant for bow ties.” She smiled at him, all traces of mistrust vanished. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair wasn’t sure what to say to that. He wasn’t even sure it was a compliment. But the fact that Crowley talked about him was tentatively intriguing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now he comes in and out all the time, but I think I saw him just yesterday? I didn’t manage to say hello, but the last time I spoke to him he said something about a cottage I think. There may have been a cat. Or a dog. I can’t really remember, sorry, it was some time ago. I know he takes a lot of stuff with him each time he goes. We thought he might be moving out but I haven’t seen the plants leave so he’s not gone just yet.” She said smiling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair thanked her, and drifted back down the stairs to Pepper waiting in the car outside. She took one look at the letter sticking out of his pocket, gave him a scolding look, grabbed it, strode back to the building and, after a moment’s inspection, shoved it into a mailbox. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pepper! You don’t even know which one was his! That could be anyone’s!” Alistair said, panicking slightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Relax Mr F, they’re all labelled. All apart from one.” She smiled and got back into the car. “C’mon, now we wait.” She said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair kept his phone with him at all times. He made sure it was fully charged, and checked it obsessively. After three days there was no response, and all the hope he’d built up crumbled with every passing hour. He was dreading the trial. Dreading having to face Crowley again, now certain that his feelings weren’t reciprocated at all. He tried to focus on the magazine interview questions that Michael kept shoving under his nose, all the articles and reviews that she wanted him to see. He responded to written questions as best he could, but his heart just wasn’t in it. He didn’t really care if this book sold, that’s not why he wrote it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then the following evening Pepper came bursting into the library where he was trying to distract himself by reading, dancing and whooping as she went. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good heavens! What’s got into you?” Alistair asked her over the top of his book.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s off Alistair! The trial is cancelled! They found Hastur! Gabriel struck a deal and confessed in the face of overwhelming evidence, and so there’s no need for us to appear! Isn’t that great!” She sang as she bounced around the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair was conflicted. Yes, he didn’t have to face Gabriel, or face Crowley, but no trial also meant his last chance to see Crowley had vanished, and a little part of him had been yearning for it just so he could see the light glint off of his rebellious hair, or see the way his mouth twitched up at the edges when he was amused by something. Alistair had so loved to see that wry smile. Even just to see the way he sauntered about, his body snaking to and fro with every step, would have been something. Not enough, but something to soothe the hungry void in his heart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wonderful.” He tried to sound happy, but it came out a little flat. She looked at him with one eyebrow raised. “Where did they find Hastur?” Alistair asked, hoping to stifle the subject Pepper was about to broach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well that’s the funniest thing.” She said with a small smile on her face as she leant against a bookcase. “Oxford Police got an anonymous call to say he was in a churchyard in a nearby village, they got excited and rocked up with the full kit to find him gagged and tied to a tree with a broken nose! The locals had no idea who he was. Apparently he’d dyed his hair and everything. The only thing they remembered was seeing a stranger in the village that day. The stranger was all in black, with red hair and sunglasses. Apparently some of the local women, and quite a few of the men, were utterly scandalised by the tightness of his trousers and ‘the louche manner in which he conducted himself’. They certainly talked about it a lot anyway, from what I heard.” She was fully grinning now, an amused twinkle in her eye. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair thought for a moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So… he was tracking down Hastur?” He said carefully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Looks like it. Prolly not even been back to the flat.” She said lightly, hands tucked into her dungarees. Alistair looked up at her with tentative hope blossoming. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll get the car ready in the morning then?” She asked, one eyebrow raised.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As if she even had to ask.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Make it afternoon. He’s not a morning person.” Alistair blurted out, his face already back in his book. He glanced up at her over his reading glasses to see her beaming and skipping away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Crowley was at the cottage. With Dog. The cottage which burned down. The cottage where he nearly died. Where Eric died. Well, they said you should always face your demons, and Alistair had been trying to do just that. He just hadn’t expected to face them all at once. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley woke up just before lunchtime when the pub opened, having got back so late it was basically early. Driving straight from Oxfordshire down to Sussex, he’d seen no point in battling his way into London unnecessarily. He’d let himself back into the pub with the key Paxton had given him, and snuck upstairs to the spare room, stashing the duffel bag right down in the bottom of the wardrobe where it wouldn’t be seen. The contents had proven useful, certainly. He now possessed a very intriguing recording, or two, that may come in useful at a later date, for instance. One that a ferocious reporter might actually start a war with. Several wars in fact. He allowed himself one satisfied smile for a job well done, before slithering out of bed and beginning the process of getting up. Today was going to be another busy day with lots of deliveries arriving on site which he needed to sign for. It was amazing how much stuff was required to rebuild a burnt down house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Three days later he got the call to say the trial had been cancelled just as he’d hoped. Gabriel had rolled over in the wake of Hastur’s capture. It was a bittersweet call. It meant that Alistair was finally safe, but it also meant that he had no reason to ever contact him again. The final tie was cut, and that chapter of his life was closed. He gave Dog an ear scratch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just you and me now, buddy. Just you and me.” He said sadly. Dog put his head on Crowley’s leg and looked up at him with those well-practised puppy dog eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah alright let’s go get you a biscuit you scamp. Fuck I’m such a soft touch now. Don’t tell anyone, ok?” Dog jumped up, tail wagging. He’d heard one of his favourite words, in amongst a lot of other noises. All lovely noises as it was Crowley’s voice, but not words he knew. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That evening Crowley and Dog watched the sunset, sat together on the grey stone wall at the end of the pub garden. They watched the valley below them glowing like a molten gold river as the setting sun threw longer and longer shadows down the length of it, Crowley quietly rubbing Dog’s head where he lay on the wall tucked up to his thigh. He thought about Alistair and finally put all his hope back in that box. He reconciled himself with the fact that this was that door closing. Another one may open, but this one had, today, finally closed that last inch or so from where he’d been holding it open the last few months. He let Alistair go, let him be gently washed away with the departing sunlight. Let himself move on with the appreciation of the time he had with him, rather than the regret of the time he wouldn’t get. Finally, just as the tips of the hills lost their rosy glow, Crowley shivered and declared it time to head inside. The pub was filling up and he badly needed a drink, and distraction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the next day, Crowley was on a roll. He was in control and he was bossing this build like a bitch. The sun was shining, he had his fuck-shit-up jacket on, and he had even got the site radio working, albeit with a radio station that played a very random selection of songs. But they didn’t talk much and that’s what was important. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tearing down the old, burnt-out shell hadn’t taken more than a couple of days with the number of people he threw at it. Then the foundations had been extended, and now walls were going up, supplies were on site, and there was a buzz of people working hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That may have something to do with the way he shouted when they didn’t, but hey, he wasn’t here to piss around, he was here to rebuild the house. Even the sun had got its metaphorical hard hat on today. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley stood in the muddy, churned up driveway, Dog at his feet, observing. He’d woken up this morning feeling more at peace with life, and even the workers noticed the change in him, forcing him to scowl extra hard so they didn’t get any ideas. The morning was spent checking on progress, signing what needed signing, ordering stuff and generally making sure everything ran to plan. He’d had another look over the fixtures and fittings he’d specified, and found himself making changes. He hadn’t realised just how much Alistair had been in the back of his mind when he chose the style of taps for example. Now he could choose what he wanted, and know it was actually what he wanted, not just what he thought he wanted. It was liberating. It was progress. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It still hurt. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So Crowley thinks he's moving on, eh? Not to fear, Alistair is on the way. Yep, I'm making you wait one more week for the reunion. </p>
<p>Paxton is the best. He knows exactly what he's doing, challenging Crowley like that. He knows full well that Crowley needs a distraction, and what better way than to plot some mischief? He also still doesn't care about Golden Girls, but it gave him a reason to call Crowley regularly. Not that he's checking up on his all-but-for-the-paperwork son...</p>
<p>Crowley's arbitrary birthday is 6th July. <a href="https://www.astrology-zodiac-signs.com/zodiac-signs/cancer/"> He sounds like he would be Cancer.</a></p>
<p>I looked into the British Justice system's definition of murder vs manslaughter vs accessory to murder etc, and from what I can tell Gabriel would be hit with murder. He planned it, so he wouldn't be an accessory, and there was nothing accidental about Eric's death so manslaughter doesn't apply. But I have no legal experience, so this is just what I've managed to translate from the government definitions. </p>
<p>I did consider having Crowley go after him, but that would be stooping to his level, and it's much more fun having him publicly shamed. </p>
<p>R. P. Tyler's first name is mentioned as Ronald in a footnote of the book. 'Percival' just seemed to go with it. </p>
<p>I cannot tell you how much of a headache this chapter has given me, trying to balance out Crowley's recovery, along with the timeline of Gabriel's arrest and all the stuff that happened in the last chapter. Working out what happens when has been a nightmare. I can see why the boys hate paperwork...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. It's All Going to be Rather Lovely</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I can't believe we're finally here! I warn you, this chapter is 99% fluff. And most of it is utterly ridiculous.</p>
<p>Oh, and pay no mind to the chapter count going up. Apparently these two weren't done with their fluff-fest, so there's some overflow in the shape of an epilogue as well. 😁</p>
<p>Now, let's get all this mess straightened out!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alistair was a bundle of nerves all morning and he only had himself to blame. They weren't due to leave until after lunch, as per his suggestion, and he was not finding the waiting easy. As a consequence he spent the time fussing and generally getting under everyone’s feet. </p>
<p>Newt had arrived at the house. He'd been told he was officially no longer a suspect after Gabriel sneered at the very idea that he was in any way involved, so Anathema woke up to the biggest bouquet of flowers she had ever seen, with a pair of feet sticking out underneath. They were also sneezing profusely, so she took pity on him and led him into the garden to try and decipher what he was actually trying to say, dumping the flowers in the kitchen sink on the way past. In the end he gave up and just kissed her on the basis that it worked the first time so it was worth a try. Fortunately it appeared to have been the right choice, and Alistair told Anathema to take a few days off and go have some privacy. They left the flowers.</p>
<p>Over lunch Alistair hardly spoke, eating so fast that he earned a raised eyebrow from Pepper and a warning from Tracy that he would get indigestion. He couldn’t help it, he was bursting at the seams with nerves and barely contained excitement at the thought of what today might bring. He owed it to Crowley to at least find out what Gabriel had said to him. Crowley needed to know he was grateful, and that, after everything that happened between them, Alistair harboured no ill feelings towards him. And if things were to progress from there, well then that was a delightful bonus. However, Alistair was aware that there were no guarantees that Crowley would even want to see him and he tried to keep the rising hope under control in the knowledge that a face to face rejection would break him if he wasn’t prepared for it. Today was about getting to the truth, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t catching himself daydreaming something altogether more passionate, as reunions went. </p>
<p>Eventually it was time to go. Pepper told Alistair if he didn’t calm down they would end up in a ditch as he jiggled impatiently in the passenger seat. He lasted until the end of the road before he started fidgeting again, but Pepper merely rolled her eyes and got on with the drive, reminding herself that a couple of hours of sitting in a car with Alistair in full nervous dynamo mode would be worth it if it meant they could sort this mess out. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud, but Alistair wasn’t the only one that had missed Crowley. </p>
<p>Two and a half hours, a lot of eighties music, and one unreasonably long stretch of average bloody speed zone later, they arrived in the single street that was Fulking village. Pepper practically shoved Alistair out of the car at the end of the drive, and went to park in the pub carpark. They agreed she would wait twenty minutes, and if Alistair didn’t come back (or call) she would head over to her mum’s.</p>
<p>With the clock ticking, Alistair made his way carefully down the tree lined, dirt track road that served as a long driveway. </p>
<p>As he walked, navigating the rough ground where large wheels had churned up the mud, the banging and clanging noises became louder, until, eventually, he started to see the cause. Alistair picked his way along all the dusty vans down the side of the track to finally reach the sheer cacophony of activity that was the site of the old house. It appeared that Crowley was rebuilding it, judging by the large machinery and people in hard hats everywhere. There seemed to be a lot to do, with men and women in hi-vis jackets bustling around all over the place doing whatever it was they were doing with frowns of concentration on their faces. There was a radio somewhere, struggling to be heard over all the noise. It was playing the same station that the car was stuck on, and currently Ms Houston was singing ‘How will I know, if he really loves me’. Alistair tried not to read too much into it. </p>
<p>And then he saw Crowley. Right in the middle of it all, and utterly in his element, wearing that god-awful jacket that he’d been wearing so long ago when he had been installing all the video cameras in Soho. That was the first time that Alistair had realised he might be in trouble, when Crowley had stood so close that it had felt like being drunk. Sometimes when Alistair closed his eyes and thought about that moment he’d been able to almost feel Crowley’s breath on his cheek again, remember the way it felt as all the nerves on that side of his body lit up with want. The black hard-hat (because of course Crowley found a black one) denied Alistair all but a peek of those impossibly vibrant locks as they spilled out the back, but it was unmistakably him. Even from behind, Alistair would know that slouch anywhere. The stance of a man for whom a pelvis was apparently an afterthought (not that he didn’t know how to put it to good use when he wanted, but now was not the time to be thinking about <em> that)</em>. Alistair slowed his pace, mesmerised by the movement of Crowley’s hands as he explained something, sculpting the air in front of him. Oh, he’d missed that. He’d missed Crowley’s grace and fluidity, the way he just seemed to flow through life. Crowley turned his head slightly, giving Alistair a glimpse of the way the corner of his eye crinkled as he laughed about something. There was a sliver, just visible, of a terrifyingly bewitching smile on that mouth that Alistair could remember pressed to his skin. Crowley’s hands continued their dance as he leant slightly towards the man standing next to him. The man who was not wearing a hard hat. The man with whom he was sharing that conspiratorial smile and rambunctious laughter. </p>
<p>Oh God, Crowley had moved on. Alistair stumbled to a halt from the weight of the crushing disappointment as it settled over him, squeezing all the air out of his lungs. He had never even thought to consider that Crowley might have found someone else, he’d been so selfish in his coveting. But there he was, all six foot plus of him, hands in the pockets of the shorts he was wearing despite the chilly spring weather, and dark hair sticking out of the back of the baseball cap that shielded his eyes from the growing strength of the sun. Alistair frowned as this interloper touched Crowley’s arm lightly and they laughed again, the coils of jealousy twisting in his gut. </p>
<p>He had been wrong to come here. Wrong to intrude on Crowley’s life like this. He couldn’t trust himself to approach them now, not without being unfairly uncivil to whoever this man was that clearly made Crowley so happy. </p>
<p>Alistair allowed himself one, final, lingering look at Crowley, before turning to leave, the desolation pricking in his eyes. If he was quick, he could make it back to Pepper before she drove away. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called her frantically as he scurried back down the dirt track. </p>
<p>“Pepper! Pepper it’s all gone wrong, I’m coming back, wait for me, please.” He begged as quietly as possible when she picked up. </p>
<p>“What do you mean ‘it’s all gone wrong’, what did he say?!” She demanded as she got back into the car.</p>
<p>Alistair heard a bark behind him, but ignored it in favour of avoiding the rather large ruts in the track.</p>
<p>“He didn’t have to say anything Pepper. There was someone here. With him.”</p>
<p>“…What do you mean ‘with him’. Alistair, did you even talk to him?!”</p>
<p>“I mean <em> with </em> him! Laughing with him, smiling with him! Face it, Pepper, I shouldn’t have come. Oh <em> Dog </em> not now!” He tailed off to the sound of excited yapping. “Oh Dog, please, shush, leave me alone! Pepper I’ll be there in a minute, just-”</p>
<p>“Nope. Not letting you off that easy. You know how often you see things that aren’t there Alistair. Not playing this game again. I’m off. You go back and sort this out properly, because I’m not picking you up until you actually talk to him!” Pepper said, frowning as she hung up on the sound of Alistair frantically shushing a very excited Dog. Pepper hesitated, then, groaning at the prospect of having to live with Alistair forever tearing himself up wondering, started the Bentley’s engine and drove away. Occasionally you had to be cruel to be kind, she rationalised. They’d tried the gentle approach and it had only made things worse. Besides, he’d forgive her. Probably. Eventually. Or at the very least he was too polite to give a bad reference. </p>
<p>Meanwhile Alistair was trying to concentrate on not slipping in shoes that were decidedly not cut out for taking this sort of terrain at speed. He was attempting to beat a hasty retreat, but Dog’s terrier heritage was coming to the fore as he nipped at Alistair's feet every time he tried to take a step away from the house. Alistair panicked, realising he’d actually been herded towards Crowley by the little rascal who was now yapping excitedly, and Crowley would be sure to hear that, and turn to look, and see him, and then he would have to explain himself, and it would be ever so awkward, and… </p>
<p>And Dog got under his already unsteady feet as he tried to step away from the house again and he tripped, tumbling forwards into the mud with an undignified yelp. Well. So much for a discreet exit. </p>
<p>Crowley had been deep in discussion with his neighbour Leslie. He knew he needed Leslie on side so was on full charm offensive to make sure there were no complaints during the build. Normally he would have quietly revelled in irritating his neighbours, but not here. Not these neighbours. And especially not when he just wanted this build done as quickly as possible. Dog was sat at his heel watching the builders and the carpenters moving about with interest, then suddenly bolted away down the drive, yapping. He often ran off at the sight of a rabbit so Crowley ignored him in favour of buttering up Leslie, but Dog was barking like anything and whatever it was he was worrying didn’t sound like it was doing anything about it. Fearing the worst for whatever poor creature Dog had cornered, Crowley turned just in time to see limbs flying out as a person, of all things, was sent tumbling quite spectacularly into the mud. </p>
<p>“Shit!” Crowley exclaimed, apologising quickly to Leslie before racing over to the person sprawled face down in the dirt. Dog was still yapping away, seemingly proud that he’d caught a person, the little terror. </p>
<p>As Crowley approached, he tried to work out who this person could be. The shoes he could see were totally impractical for a building site, so it was unlikely to be an inspector, and with no truck or lorry to be seen it wasn’t a delivery. It could be a neighbour, but most of them had been up already. Crowley was at a total loss as to why this person was here, but with Leslie looking on he couldn’t just shout at some randomer his dog had just sent flying. Although it <em> was </em> unusual for Dog to run up to strangers like that… He reached them quickly, leaning over to stick a hand out to help them up.</p>
<p>“Christ, I’m so sorry, he doesn’t normally do…” Crowley trailed off as the person rolled over onto their back and Crowley’s brain caught up with just who was laid out on the ground before him. He froze, eyes wide with shock. </p>
<p>After a few heartbeats loud enough that the whole village must have heard them, Crowley's hard-hat gave in to gravity and slipped off his head. It landed squarely on the broad chest beneath him, leaving a dusty mark on the pale, cream coat, but neither of them seemed to notice. They were both too shocked to even move. </p>
<p>Alistair. The last person Crowley had expected to see. The man who hadn’t ever wanted to see him again and who broke Crowley’s heart when he asked him to leave, was somehow here. The man who, just last night, Crowley had finally let go so he could move on with his life, but everything in his brain right now was laughing at the very notion of it when he saw those wide, sapphire eyes. How the fuck could he still look so fucking heavenly, sprawled in the dirt?! Then Crowley’s wayward hair, now unrestrained by the hat, slipped forwards, breaking their stunned gaze and that seemed to be enough to snap them out of their predicament. Dog licked his face.</p>
<p>At the same moment Leslie came to the rescue, waving one hand to shoo Dog off and sticking the other out to help Alistair up. </p>
<p>“Come on, let’s get you out of the mud. I know Anthony here can look a little alarming when he appears suddenly like that, but I promise he’s harmless!” Leslie joked, helping Alistair up.</p>
<p><em> He’s not. </em> Alistair thought vaguely. <em>He’s brilliant, and kind, but he’s not harmless...</em></p>
<p>Alistair felt his insides ignite at the way the man spoke about Crowley. At the familiarity of it. He wanted to shout at him, to let him know on no uncertain terms that <em> I was here first</em> and <em>you don’t know him like I do</em>. It was a horrible urge and Alistair felt utterly ashamed of himself. He tried to distract himself with sorting out the mess the tumble had made of his coat. Fortunately it had been fairly dry so the mud wasn’t very thick, and after a quick brush down the only evidence of his tumble was the slightly darker patch on each elbow.</p>
<p>“I’ll head off Anthony, see you down the pub later?” Leslie asked, turning towards the road.</p>
<p>“Uh, yeah, thanks for stopping by Leslie. Give my regards to Maud…” Crowley said distantly as Leslie walked off down the lane. He was still gawping at Alistair, who was frowning at the ground, his hands balled into fists. After a few moments of charged silence they both spoke at the same time. </p>
<p>“Im sorry, I shouldn’t have…”</p>
<p>“My neighbour, he’s…”</p>
<p>They both stopped and Alistair’s head snapped up to look at Crowley, the frown vanishing. </p>
<p>“Uh…” Crowley tried, no idea where to start as all the questions he’d had brimming over in his mind fled the moment Alistair’s gaze locked on to his. </p>
<p>“Your… neighbour?” Alistair asked, hope rising even as he tried to stop it. He couldn’t help staring at those eyes that were so wonderfully unique, each rare sighting burned into his memory. </p>
<p>“Uh, yeah. Leslie, he… he lives over the other side of the woods,” Crowley waved an arm out vaguely towards the trees, “and we have to get all the delivery lorries past the tight bend at the end of his drive. I told him he could come by at any time to see what we’re up to.” Crowley realised with a cringe that he wasn’t wearing any sunglasses because they didn’t fit under the stupid hat he had to wear on site. The stupid hat that left his hair looking flat and terrible, and which Alistair was now holding, cradled against his chest in those hands that Crowley couldn’t stop thinking about. <em> Fuck.</em> After all the energy he’d put into making sure he looked good all the times he'd gone out hoping to bump into Alistair, it was just his luck that Alistair had to come and see him when he looked like absolute shit, with flat hat-hair and probably covered in brick dust and all sorts of construction grime. Fan-fucking-tastic. </p>
<p>“Oh that’s wonderful! Oh! I mean, that you’ve invited him in like that... um.” Alistair tried to mask his relief and joy, but he’d never been that successful at hiding his feelings. In an ideal world he had hoped to come striding in, crowds parting and music swelling, to sweep Crowley off his feet. The whole thing. But having a mud bath didn’t figure well into those sorts of plans. And he’d tried so hard to make sure he looked his best this morning...</p>
<p>“Do you wanna… Do you wanna see?” Crowley asked tentatively, motioning towards the house. </p>
<p>“Yes please.” Alistair said, and he knew he sounded too eager but he was only halfway into his cringe when the sides of Crowley’s mouth lifted into a small smile. </p>
<p>Crowley held his hand out towards Alistair, and for a moment Alistair nearly put his own out to grab hold of it, before he realised he was still holding Crowley’s hard-hat. After an awkward moment where he tried to figure out how his hands actually worked, he managed to hold it out. Crowley took it, smoothing back his hair and sliding the hat back onto his head in one fluid movement. Alistair watched Crowley’s fingers gliding through his gleaming auburn locks, yearning to follow them with his own. It had been such an effortless movement, and here he was, unable to even do something so simple as hold out the hat already in his hands. </p>
<p>And now Crowley was already sauntering away (oh he’d missed the sinuous sway of those hips), so with a little jump he caught up with him and followed him towards the house. Crowley stopped by the table that was on the driveway in front of it, so Alistair paused, looking up at the building for the first time. There wasn’t much there as it was such an early stage in the build, but Alistair was suddenly transported back to that night. To the flames, the rain, the acrid smell of burning, and the shivering little Dog trying to get him to follow. There was a crash to his left as someone dropped a load of timber and Alistair whimpered quietly as he saw the flashes of lightning. Then he heard Dog barking, and it was all too real and he was going to crumble and… wait, Dog was actually barking. And jumping up on his leg. The flames dancing in his vision faded as he looked down at the beady little eyes and fuzzy snout of Fulking’s resident Hell Hound, one paw as high on Alistair’s leg as he could reach, looking up at him and tilting his head this way and that whilst yapping almost continuously. Normally Alistair would have been cross that his trousers would get dirty, but sod it. He’d already laid down in the stuff. He bent down and picked Dog up with both arms and held him to his chest.</p>
<p>“Thank you Dog. You saved me again you little scamp.” Alistair said quietly, giving him a scratch behind the ear and pressing his face into his side. He found the spot that had Dog closing his eyes with satisfaction as he leaned into it, tail slapping against Alistair’s body. </p>
<p>Crowley turned back from the table where they dumped all the bits that he mentally catalogued as ‘miscellaneous stuff’, to see Alistair holding Dog up and murmuring something in his ear. It was such a wonderfully domestic tableau that Crowley couldn’t help but smile, before remembering that he had no idea why Alistair was here. It had been made pretty clear that Alistair didn’t want him. He'd seen the dark beast that Crowley kept locked away for emergencies and wanted nothing to do with him. He’d been judged by an angel and found wanting it seemed. Still, Crowley couldn’t help the brief spike of fear as he wondered if perhaps someone was targeting Alistair again and maybe he was here to ask him to come back in a professional capacity. Crowley couldn’t put himself through that, he just couldn’t. He shouldn’t. But he had no idea if he was ever going to be able to say no to Alistair. </p>
<p>Lingering for just a moment, Crowley watched the way Alistair’s eyes twinkled as he smiled down at the little bundle of heroic mischief, wishing it would be directed at him. He yearned to be held in those arms and looked at like that. He sighed. Great. Jealous of his dog now. <em> Fuck. </em>With a sigh, Crowley walked back over to Alistair and held out the hard-hat he’d selected. </p>
<p>“Here, you’ll need this on site. We can probably get away with the shoes if we stay away from the heavier stuff.” </p>
<p>Alistair turned to look at the white hard-hat being held out, and the smile he gave Crowley, the one that could be described as ‘adoring’ if you didn’t know what Crowley knew, utterly took his breath away. Alistair put down a Dog who was obviously not happy at losing his hug, and took the hat, inspecting the inside and making an adjustment before popping it on his head. </p>
<p>“What do you think? Have I got it right?” Alistair asked, looking at Crowley with an excited expression. The hat had a yellow band around it and for a moment Crowley couldn’t help but see it as a halo. </p>
<p>“Perfect.” Crowley sighed, then turned away quickly before his expression could give too much away. “So! Shall we? Front door will go here…” Crowley led Alistair towards the gap in the rapidly rising front wall, before pausing and turning to Dog. “Dog, sit. Stay here.” Dog whined and shuffled after Alistair. He was unwilling to leave Alistair alone now he’d found the thing that made Crowley happy, in case he wandered off again. Alistair turned, bent down towards him and ruffled his ears. </p>
<p>“Stay here please dearest, I’ll be back soon. There’s a good boy.” He said, and Dog obediently laid down to wait with only a small whine. </p>
<p>“Jesus Christ even my dog adores you.” Crowley grumbled and Alistair gave him a complicated look, so he coughed and quickly tried to gloss over that. </p>
<p>“Right. Yes. So. House. This way…” Crowley led him inside, and proceeded to give him a tour of the ground floor as it was going up. He pointed out the new, larger kitchen, the three reception rooms (one of which Alistair privately thought would make an excellent library), explained the new stairs (with a right angle in the middle, as he’d read it was safer in the event of falls), and out what would be a conservatory at the back and into the garden.</p>
<p>As he explained the layout of the house, Crowley relaxed a bit. Alistair had seemed genuinely interested, his eyes bright and marvelling at everything he saw, like a child in a museum. Not at all like someone who was in danger and needed protection. He walked with his hands held behind his back as usual, and his stiff demeanour looked like it should be so out of place on a building site but he just seemed to fit, weaving his way in and out of the workers and piles of… stuff. It was amazing how much ‘stuff’ accumulated on a building site, and Crowley had no idea what half of it was for, although he was sure he was paying for it. </p>
<p>Crowley could feel his supposedly healed heart aching more with every new room they looked into. Bringing Alistair in had been another one of his more stupid ideas. Even if Alistair left after whatever this was and never came back, Crowley would forever walk these rooms knowing he’d been here. </p>
<p>They stepped out into the garden, and Crowley felt the tension seeping away again as the slight breeze cooled his face. </p>
<p>Walking about half way down the garden to the apple tree, they stopped, turning to look back at the beginnings of the new Jasmine Cottage. Crowley had finished his tour but Alistair didn’t seem to have any questions so they stood in, what felt to Crowley, like a highly charged silence. He supposed he should be saying something useful about the house but he was so distracted by Alistair’s physical presence right now he couldn’t think. Crowley realised he’d ended up standing almost touching Alistair, his right shoulder tingling with the proximity. Well, Alistair was standing, Crowley was slouching as usual. His whole body curved and twisted towards the angel on his right, like a snake warming itself in the morning sun. Ever in motion, he couldn’t stay still. Not with all the nervous energy running through him, manifesting as his hand swinging slightly as it dangled loosely at his side. He didn’t even realise it had succumbed to the pull he was feeling towards Alistair until he felt their knuckles brush against each other. The lightest of touches, but it felt electric and it was only through sheer volume of training that he didn’t flinch away. </p>
<p>Then on the return swing Alistair had turned his hand and caught Crowley’s rebellious hand in his, threading stout fingers between his slender ones and holding it firmly, stilling his nervous energy. Crowley’s body sang out at the contact, his hand closing of its own accord as he earthed himself on that solid touch. His brain, being slightly more aware, whimpered in confusion. </p>
<p>“Ngk… Alistair, why are you here? What are you doing?” Crowley croaked through dry lips as he looked at Alistair, and he sounded oh so tired. </p>
<p>Alistair looked back at him with mild incomprehension, then down at their clasped hands, then back up again at Crowley as realisation dawned.</p>
<p>“Oh! My goodness I’m so sorry, I got quite carried away. I suppose I should have started with that really, but Dog rather took the wind out my sails, and you…” Alistair’s eyes darted over all of Crowley as he stood, leaning in towards him, “Well, yes. Anyway.” Alistair let go of Crowley’s hand, cleared his throat, and turned to face him. </p>
<p>“My dear, it has come to my attention recently, that after you woke up in the hospital, Gabriel was not entirely honest with myself and my household about what transpired. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, I had hoped to express to you my gratitude for what you did that day.” Crowley shifted, his brows furrowing as he pushed the anger down at the mention of that arsehole’s name. “Now. It seems he told the others that I felt great animosity towards you, and that I had expressed a wish for them never to speak of you again. Which couldn’t have been further from the truth, I assure you." Alistair looked down at his hands, missing the way Crowley's face went completely blank. "However, he told <em> me</em>, that you had asked that I cease all contact with you, and that it was your wish that we left you alone.” </p>
<p>
  <em> What… </em>
</p>
<p>Alistair began to look worried, and Crowley noticed through the ringing in his ears at the revelation he’d just heard, that Alistair was wearing the winged cufflinks he’d given him.</p>
<p>“If that is, indeed, the case, then I apologise unreservedly for intruding, and I will leave you alone from this point forth,” Alistair continued, clearing his throat to try and get rid of the tightness before looking back up to meet Crowley’s stunned gaze, “but I wanted to ask you, Crowley, I wanted to be sure. Was that really your intention?  And what exactly did Gabriel say to you when you woke up in that hospital room?”</p>
<p>
  <em> WHAT?!... </em>
</p>
<p>Crowley’s head was spinning. Gabriel had lied. Gabriel had lied to Alistair and to the others, so it was entirely possible that Gabriel lied to him too. Gabriel… <em> lied</em>… It was all a lie. Alistair hadn’t asked to be left alone… didn’t want… or rather, as he was here, just maybe… did? </p>
<p>“Gabriel lied…” Crowley said, his voice distant.</p>
<p>He took in Alistair’s face, his terrified yet hopeful expression, and Crowley’s next action was entirely controlled by his body. If his brain had had any input in the way he surged forwards, it would have told him to <em> take the bloody hard-hat off first… </em></p>
<p>The hats bashed together. Crowley’s peak tipped his forward and off, and he didn’t manage to land the kiss he’d aimed for. He bounced back with a grunt of surprise, looking horrified, his nose throbbing where the hat had rammed into it as it clattered to the ground. Alistair had been surprised and elated, but now he felt cheated, and he wouldn’t stand for that. Not after everything he’d been through to get here. Not after all the waiting and the missed opportunities where life got in their way. Now he was here he couldn’t bear to wait a moment longer. Looking up into Crowley’s wide, fearful, beautiful hazel eyes, Alistair took matters into his own hands. In a movement so smooth he would have never believed he had it in him, he tore his own hat off with one hand, the other coming up to grab the front of Crowley’s ridiculous site jacket and dragging him back to have another go. </p>
<p>This time it worked. Finally. After months and months of dancing around each other, missing signals and being kept apart, finally they managed to move at the same speed. One kiss, one deliberate and unquestionable meeting of two mouths that had, thus far, failed at every other opportunity to convey the harmony of their sentiment… and every doubt was silenced. Finally they both understood as the last piece of the puzzle that was their lives was slotted into place, and sealed with tightly drawn arms and purposeful lips. There may have been a smidge of tongue as well. It was that sort of kiss. </p>
<p>It was a little while before the two of them registered the raucous cheering coming from the partially built house, where every single other person on the site had quietly downed tools some time ago and had been watching them with varying degrees of subtlety. </p>
<p>“Fuck.” Crowley exclaimed as they pulled apart, bright eyed and unable to do anything about the goofy smile on his face. All his dreams had just come true. Well, nearly all of them. The good ones anyway. The ones that involved Alistair. And could be done in public. </p>
<p>“Maybe later, when there's less of an audience.” Alistair murmured so only Crowley would hear as he turned demurely away from the cheering with a very satisfied smirk on his face. His twinkling eyes never left Crowley’s. Their hands found each other again on instinct and twined together, arms pressed together from wrist to shoulder.  </p>
<p>“Am I to infer from that, that Gabriel was, indeed, lying then, and that it was not your wish for me to leave and never return?” Alistair asked. Because he had to be sure. There had been too much confusion already. </p>
<p>Crowley had to think for a moment as his kiss-addled brain caught up with such concepts as ‘words’ and their meanings, making a valiant attempt at translating the ones Alistair had just used. </p>
<p>“Fuck no, Angel. Never said anything of the sort. Everyone at the hospital was gutted that you weren’t there when I woke up, me included. That fuck-face told me you thought it was a mistake to get involved with me and that you wanted me to stay away. Thought I’d at least try and be professional for once. Fuck, I can’t believe I fell for it! But, to be fair, I was on <em> so </em> many drugs at the time... ” Crowley was too giddy to feel too upset about it right now, but he would later. </p>
<p>“Oh dearest, the only mistake I made when it comes to you, is not being open with you sooner. I let fear and doubt get in the way, I’m afraid. And as for the mess Gabriel got us into, it doesn’t matter now. Although I’m not sure what to make of the fact that the liberal application of controlled substances seemed to improve your professionalism.” Alistair teased and oh there was that smile that Crowley had missed. The one he got when Alistair was only telling him off because he thought he should, rather than he wanted to. </p>
<p>Crowley laughed out loud. It was free, and joyous, and he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d laughed like this. Alistair was so elated he felt as if he might float away. Crowley turned towards the whooping and wolf whistling. </p>
<p>“Yeah, alright! Bugger off the lot of you and get back to work!” He shouted, waving his free hand at them in an overly enthusiastic shooing motion. “It’s not every day the love of your life rocks back up out of the blue so you can all do one!” He swung back around to look at Alistair, grinning like a teenager. He was on the verge of giggling for fuck’s sake. What was this man <em> doing </em> to him?! Crowley had spent his life running. Running towards danger, running away from anything that he cared about before the inevitable rejection tormented his already fragile heart, or, worse, they were taken from him. Always running. Well, this time someone he loved had caught up with him and now he didn’t feel like running any more.</p>
<p>“Love of your…” He heard Alistair say slowly, registering the look on his face, and Crowley froze. <em> Ohshitohshitohshit… </em></p>
<p>“Ah, yyyyh, well, pffff...” He flustered, panicking to a background chorus of pantomime perfect ‘oooOOooohs!’ from the still very much enthralled site staff, as he felt his face turn a not very fetching shade of crimson. Crowley would swear he could hear someone eating popcorn, the arseholes. He'd have to fire the lot of them.</p>
<p>“Eloquent as ever my darling.” Alistair said, looking him over before raising one bastard eyebrow, yanking lightning fast on the hand clasped in his and swinging a still very much out of his depth and now off balance Crowley towards him, before catching him in his other arm and tilting him back. Sliding his now free hand around Crowley’s waist and easily holding his weight, Alistair looked him dead in the eye, and before Crowley had a chance to ‘ngk’, kissed him soundly. The radio had even joined in the ridiculousness, and Whitney was belting out ‘I will always love you’. </p>
<p>Vaguely fighting against the idea that Alistair was dipping him, <em> fucking dipping for fuck’s sake, like a chuffing Disney princess, </em> Crowley decided sod it. He was never going to live this down now. The damage was already done, so he might as well just go with it. He found himself surprised and mildly disgusted at just how much he was secretly loving it as his arms found themselves entwining around Alistair’s neck as he was held quite securely. Alistair’s strength was never going to not make him all sorts of tingly, was it? However, Crowley was resolutely not swooning. Nuh-uh. Not at all. (Maybe just a little bit... c’mon, the man was <em> strong</em>).</p>
<p>And the crowd went, predictably, wild. </p>
<p>Well, wild-er… </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><b> <em>WhatsApp notification:</em> </b> <em> New message to group </em> <b> <em>Fell Towers</em> </b></p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> <em>Tracy: </em> </b> <em> So? Any news Pepper? </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Anathema: </em> </b> <em> Yeah, come on, updates! </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Pepper:</em> </b> <em> Chucked him out the car, then about ten mins later he called in a right state and seemed to think C had a new boyfriend. I told him that was ridiculous, and bailed so he had to go back and sort it out and now I’m at mum’s, but I’ve heard nothing so I assume all good?  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Pepper: </em> </b> <em> Do you think I should call him or is he going to be mega pissed at me?  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Pepper: </em> </b> <em> Crap what did I do?! </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Pepper: </em> </b> <em> Ugh I am so fired. </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Tracy: </em> </b> <em> NOOOO! Don’t worry. No news is good news. You’re not going anywhere, love. I won’t allow it. </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Anathema: </em> </b> <em> Agreed! Don’t interrupt! Hopefully they’ve finally both got their shit together! </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Pepper: </em> </b> <em>Christ,</em> <em>I bloody hope so. Not sure I can take much more of his moping around like a lovelorn teenager. </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Tracy: </em> </b> <em> Well let us know when you do hear something dearie. I'm sure it won't be long.</em></p>
<p><b> <em>Anathema: </em> </b> <em> And tell Crowley we say hi! And sorry... </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Pepper: </em> </b> <em> Roger that. Newt ok? </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Anathema: </em> </b> <em> Newt’s fine now. Just pleased it’s all over. He says he ‘absolutely doesn’t want to say hi to that madman, and cannot understand what possessed Mr. Fell to go for him in the first place’.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Pepper: </em> </b>🤣 🤣</p>
<p><b> <em>Tracy: </em> </b> <em> Yes, I can’t imagine Newt has looked too closely at Crowley’s physique. Not that you have to look closely, mind, what with his trousers being so tight…  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Tracy: </em> </b> <em> Do you think the snake hips are a side effect of the trouser snake he keeps in there? </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Anathema: </em> </b> <em> Tracy!!! </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Uriel: </em> </b> <em> …yuk. </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Pepper: </em> </b> <em> Please say you mean his tattoo... He told me his old RAF nickname was ‘Serpent’ because of it. He wouldn’t show it to me.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Tracy: </em> </b> <em> Oh I’ve known a few pilots in my time dearies, and I’ll bet you anything the tattoo came after the nickname.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Anathema:</em> </b> <em> !!!! I don’t want to know…  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Tracy: </em> </b> <em> Just saying girls… They don’t give nicknames like that for a bit of ink. Alistair is a lucky boy. </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Pepper: </em> </b> <em> OMG Tracy! Nooo! Ew! </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Tracy: </em> </b> <em> Good thing I told you to take overnight stuff! </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Michael: </em> </b>🙄</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pepper groaned at her phone. Tracy had slipped an overnight bag for Alistair in the car, and told her to leave it with the pub landlord if Alistair didn’t come straight back. She had a bit of a sixth sense for these things so Pepper had done as she was told, and was now very thankful she had taken Tracy’s advice and brought a bag of her own as well. </p>
<p>“Mum! Looks like I’m staying here tonight. What’s for tea?” She called out, and settled in for the long haul. She had to fight down a little of the anxiety creeping in from the last time she heard nothing from Alistair whilst down here, but Tracy and Anathema were right. No news should be good news this time around. And Paxton had her number.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Alistair tilted Crowley gently back to his feet, but he seemed unwilling to let go. </p>
<p>“No…” Crowley slurred through lips that knew they’d been kissed, and kissed well, draping himself heavily over Alistair’s shoulders. ”No… legs. No legs. You bastard.” </p>
<p>Crowley leant hard on Alistair, who was more than happy to hold him as they both burst out laughing again. They carried on laughing and leaning on each other all the way out of the gate at the bottom of the garden, navigating the steep chalk path onto the side of the Downs once Crowley’s knees had decided to rejoin the party. They strolled along the hillside together, arms linked and bodies bumping as Crowley tried to reign in his loping strides to match Alistair’s shorter march.</p>
<p>“You’re such a bastard, you know that?” Crowley said quietly, through the grin he couldn’t get off his face even if he tried.</p>
<p>“You said. And apparently you love it.” Alistair teased, prodding him lightly. </p>
<p>“Yeah, uh, sorry, about that, not quite how I planned to tell you… not that I had at all really, seeing as I thought I would never see you again…” Crowley shrugged, grin slipping slightly as he remembered his accidental admission. He felt the nerves resurface as he tried to tell himself that Alistair hadn’t run off so it must be fine, right? “Anyway, don’t feel that you have to-”</p>
<p>“Oh! Of course, I’m sorry my dear I got quite carried away again.” Alistair paused and it turned out that when an unstoppable force found itself attached to a suddenly immovable object, the object won. Crowley’s free arm flailed wildly as his momentum carried him off balance before he pivoted back around and righted himself facing a stationary Alistair. Who was looking at him with open adoration. It made Crowley’s head spin.</p>
<p>“Angel, warn me next time! You nearly sent me flying!” He complained. </p>
<p>“Well I’ve already swept you off your feet-”</p>
<p>“Ugh, I am never living that down.” Crowley flopped his head back and his whole body slouched. </p>
<p>“Besides. In all that excitement I never actually told you that I love you too, did I?” Alistair said it so calmly, but Crowley simply couldn’t comprehend it. </p>
<p>“Wh… huh?” He asked, snapping his head up to stare at Alistair, dumbly. </p>
<p>“Of course I do! Really quite excessively, I'm afraid. Why did you think I came down here as soon as I thought there was a chance you might not hate me? Although I’ll admit it took a bit of sleuthing to work out where you were. Your neighbour is lovely by the way.” Alistair said. </p>
<p>“My neighbour? Wait, why the fuck did you think I… How could anyone ever… No! Ugh. I don’t hate you Alistair. Never did, obviously.”</p>
<p>“Well, yes, I know that now dearest…”</p>
<p>“And... I guess I thought, perhaps… I thought you might be in danger and wanted me to work for you again.” Crowley said quietly, looking down at his chunky, steel toe capped site boots as he kicked at the weeds by the path. </p>
<p>“And would you? Would you have come back with me if I was in trouble again?” Alistair asked, his voice oddly tight, their hands held loosely between them.</p>
<p>Crowley looked up at him, at the eyebrows edging towards each other, at the hope in his expression. </p>
<p>“No.” He said, looking back down at his feet. “Not as your bodyguard. I can’t do that. Can’t go through that again. It’s not fair on either of us.”</p>
<p>“Then, what about, as a… as my…” Alistair struggled to find the right word, so looked down at their clasped hands.</p>
<p>“As yours. If you’ll have me.” Crowley said quietly, lifting Alistair’s hand and placing a gentle kiss on his knuckles as he looked into his eyes (<em>f</em><em>ucking blue, I knew it)</em>. Alistair pulled his hand out of Crowley’s and held it against his cheek, guiding him in so he could return the gesture against Crowley’s lips because it was impossible to think of doing anything else in that moment. As he pulled away Crowley chased him for more, and then Alistair got that hungry look on his face that he got when he saw a particularly delectable pastry and suddenly Crowley’s arms were full of soft, warm, gorgeous, and, above all, enthusiastic Angel. He’d kissed Alistair before, quite recently in fact, but that was before he knew that Alistair loved him. It gave him a shiver just to think about it. Now he could feel the love in the press of those cherry lips, the adoration in the soft caress of his tongue, the… sweet Jesus... the desire in the press of Alistair’s body into his own. It was intoxicating, and it was a few minutes before he realised his face felt wet. He pulled back, looking at Alistair with concern, expecting tears. He did not expect to suddenly find that he had been so engrossed in the kiss that he hadn’t noticed it start to drizzle. </p>
<p>“Oh my!” Alistair said, blinking as the fine droplets dusted his eyelashes, settling lightly on his curls and making him sparkle. He looked around, suddenly aware that he had no idea where he was, and that he was not at all dressed for the weather. But Crowley was already pulling off his ridiculous jacket and throwing it around Alistair’s shoulders. The smile on his face was so content, that Alistair didn’t have it in him to protest. Crowley grabbed his hand and they dashed back the way they’d come, Crowley leading him off the Downs a turn or two earlier and into the pub garden. The rain had got heavier and Crowley was soon soaked through, but he was still smiling. </p>
<p>Paxton heard the back door open and chuckled to himself as two very wet men who were definitely old enough to know better, threw off muddy shoes and went rushing up the stairs, giggling. He fired off a quick text and carried on, subtly turning up the pub’s background music. </p>
<p>“My dear, you’re freezing!” Alistair admonished, as they got to the spare room where Crowley had been staying. Alistair was looking, not unappreciatively, at Crowley’s black cotton t-shirt where it clung wetly to his shivering torso. Stood at the end of that pine bed, the space between them was both suffocating and too far all at the same time. Crowley peeled the sodden t-shirt off and flung it wetly in a corner, noting the flash in Alistair’s eyes as he did so. </p>
<p>“You’re going to need a hot shower to warm up, I think.” Alistair said quietly. “Unless you have any better ideas?” He stepped closer, closing the gap and placing his warm palms on Crowley’s icy chest. His hands and his gaze began to drift. “Or, perhaps, one, single, better idea?”</p>
<p>Crowley saw the challenge, and rose to it in more ways than one. </p>
<p>Some time later Crowley came dashing down the stairs in pyjama trousers and Alistair’s erratically buttoned up shirt to grab some food from the kitchen. Paxton gave him a look that was far too knowing for his liking. Crowley scowled at him and got an eye roll in response as he sped back off up the stairs with his pilfered bounty of bread, cold meat, and cheese.
</p>
<p><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28183146">[This way for the smut]</a>
  <a id="return-takemeback" name="return-takemeback"></a></p>
<p>The next morning, Alistair floated slowly into a relaxed semi-consciousness, a quiet hum of contentment escaping as he took in the fact that he was naked and once again curled up into Crowley’s chest. It was a lovely place to wake up, made even better by the soft sounds of Crowley still sleeping, and for once he allowed himself to just feel blissfully happy. Alistair ran his mind over the last time he’d woken up like this, the fact he didn’t have to hide the way he snuggled in closer to Crowley any more. He could openly enjoy it, knowing that not only did Crowley want it too, but that nothing would come between them now. And at least Pepper wouldn’t be angry with him this ti-</p>
<p>Pepper!</p>
<p>“Shit!” Alistair gasped, jumping up and startling Crowley who lurched backwards in a whirl of arms and meaningless consonants as he was so rudely thrust into consciousness. Alistair dashed to the corner of the room where his clothes had been flung, searching through them. </p>
<p>“Sorry love, didn’t mean to wake you up so early in the morning!” He said as he bent down, rooting around for his jacket. </p>
<p>Crowley raised his head to look at him and his creamy skinned, naked arse, wiggling around in the air.</p>
<p>“S’not morning, moon’s still out.” He said sleepily, but waking up fast. </p>
<p>“What?” Alistair said turning to look first at the window, then at Crowley, then at whatever Crowley was looking at- oh. He blushed.</p>
<p>“Fiend.” He said, but there was no bite to his words. He crouched down this time, pulling clothes out of the corner. “I realised I never called Pepper back, to tell her what happened. She’ll be furi- Oh… Well I’ll be damned.” He said as he held up his overnight bag.</p>
<p>“S’not that bad when you get used to it.” Crowley yawned. Alistair shot him a fond yet exasperated look that Crowley hoped he would get to see every day if possible. It wasn’t exactly how he’d hoped to wake up, but it was still miles better than he’d envisioned this time yesterday. </p>
<p>“You’re on a roll this morning, aren’t you?” Alistair teased, then sighed, looking at the bag. “Oh dear. Are we really that predictable…” He gave up on trying to find his phone and grabbed Crowley’s. Crowley briefly protested at having his thumb so unceremoniously commandeered to unlock his phone, before realising it brought Alistair within arm’s reach, whereupon he grabbed hold of him, pulling him back down to sit on to the bed. Alistair wriggled away slightly from where Crowley was curling himself around him and fired off a text apologising to Pepper for not texting earlier, but she was absolutely right, and he was fine (better than fine actually) and thanking her for the not-so-subtle nudge and the overnight bag. Then a second to say who it was. Then he put the phone back on the bedside table, and yelped as he was bundled fully back into the bed because Crowley was indeed on a roll and intended to use that momentum to roll around some more.</p>
<p>Later, over breakfast Crowley’s phone buzzed.</p>
<p>“Pepper says Paxton already told her so she’s made plans with her mum today.” Crowley read out and Alistair looked sideways at Paxton, who was suddenly studying one of the many hairline cracks in the old lath and plaster ceiling. “She says she’s glad we finally got our shit together, and then why has she sent me a picture of an aubergine?” He wondered aloud and both Alistair and Paxton choked in unison on their scrambled eggs, sharing a look that said many things, only Alistair’s had decidedly more blush involved. Neither felt inclined to offer up an explanation. </p>
<p>“So, what will you two do today then?” Paxton asked quickly. </p>
<p>A few nonsense sounds later, and it was clear that neither of them had thought that far. </p>
<p>Crowley just looked at Alistair so he thought for a moment, looking at the sky out of the window.</p>
<p>“I think…” he started, then turned to look at Crowley sat next to him in his pyjamas, at his earnest expression, his relaxed sprawl, at everything he never knew he needed in life. “I think we should have a picnic.”</p>
<p>Paxton packed them a bag full of food while they got dressed, and shooed them out of the door with a couple of blankets, promising to look after Dog who, it transpired, had made his own way back to the pub last night and spent the evening happily charming biscuits and tidbits out of everyone in the pub. </p>
<p>Alistair and Crowley strolled along the Downs hand in hand, eventually settling on a spot that was flat enough that they wouldn’t be in danger of the food rolling away. Alistair reclined on the blanket, admiring the view South towards Brighton and the sea. Crowley positioned himself strategically between Alistair and the picnic food, enabling him to sneak as many kisses as he wanted every time Alistair had to lean over him to pick something up. He was still holding on to Alistair’s hand as if he might disappear if he let go. </p>
<p>Leaning over and picking up a slice of sourdough, Alistair swiped it in the hummus before popping it in his mouth. He felt happier than he had done in quite some time, so made sure to to enjoy the flavour of the bread and hummus in such a way that was specifically intended for Crowley to hear. </p>
<p>Crowley inhaled sharply, then leant forward and nuzzled into Alistair’s neck. “That good hmm?” He hummed, lips pressed into the sensitive underside of Alistair’s jaw. Two could play at that game. </p>
<p>“Dearest, if you are going to persist in this lascivious behaviour then I will have to insist on you passing me things for the sake of decency.” Alistair pouted unconvincingly, drawing back. They were in public, after all. </p>
<p>Crowley gave him an exaggerated tut and let go of his hand to retrieve some grapes, his leg unconsciously drifting out to rest against Alistair’s as he let go. Grapes handed over, he then tipped his head back to soak up the late spring sunshine and Alistair couldn’t help but look. Here, laid out in the sun, was the catalyst that had turned his life so wonderfully inside out. He’d resisted at first, but it was clear that once Crowley exploded into his life the ripples were never going to fade away, and he couldn’t be more grateful.</p>
<p>“I, um, I heard how they found Hastur.” Alistair said quietly. “Thank you.” </p>
<p>“Don’t.” Crowley grumbled. “If anyone hears I was working pro-bono I’ll lose what credibility I have left. God knows how long it’s going to take to get the site staff to respect me again after that little stunt you pulled yesterday.” </p>
<p>Alistair grinned, looked at the red grapes, then back at Crowley. A memory stirred in his mind, and he pulled a grape off of the bunch. </p>
<p>His eyes shut, the first Crowley knew of it was the press of the grape to his lips. He flinched and opened his eyes wide to see Alistair looking at him, a grape held out in his fingers towards him. </p>
<p>“Are you ever going to stop sneaking up on me?” Crowley groaned, then leant towards Alistair and opened his mouth. </p>
<p>Alistair’s face took on that glow of delight that made the rest of the world fade into the background as he fed Crowley the grape. </p>
<p>“And miss the look on your face? Doubtful...” Alistair grinned, shuffling up the blanket and nudging Crowley to put his head in Alistair’s lap. “Now, it’s not quite your throne, darling, but it’s what we’ve got to work with at the moment.” Alistair said, gazing down at him and brushing a stray curl off his face. </p>
<p>Once Crowley had got past the ‘darling’ (and the feeling of Alistair’s thigh under his head), it took him a moment (and three more grapes) to work out what Alistair meant. </p>
<p>“Does my throne feature in many of your fantasies then, Angel?” He teased, toying with the grape in his mouth, one eyebrow raised in playful challenge as he looked up at him. </p>
<p>Alistair spluttered and went bright red. </p>
<p>“Perhaps a couple…” he mumbled, looking away. </p>
<p>“Just a couple? How many fantasies about me have you got?” He grinned. “Waaaaait, that’s why you used to randomly avoid me some days, isn’t it... Too soon after having a wank?” Crowley waggled his eyebrows suggestively at him and relished the colour that flooded onto Alistair’s face. </p>
<p>“Crowley!” Alistair gasped, looking around them quickly. “Oh I’d forgotten how insufferable you can be at times.” He made a show of trying to push Crowley off his lap, but it was never going to happen and they both knew it. </p>
<p>“Oh, Angel, you have no idea. You get the unfiltered version now, so I hope you know what you’ve got yourself into.” Crowley said as he settled in further, eyes shut and mouth open to await the next grape, which Alistair duly supplied. </p>
<p>“Crowley?”</p>
<p>“Mmm, yes, Angel?”</p>
<p>“Did you not, erm, indulge then?” Alistair asked in a very small voice, his hands falling still from where they’d been plucking grapes. </p>
<p>Crowley opened his eyes to look at him. “Are you asking me if I was so abysmally unprofessional as to fantasise about my client almost constantly, often in his presence, even going so far as to jerk off in the shower at the thought of him pressing me into the glass screen?”</p>
<p>Alistair was crimson. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…”</p>
<p>“Course I bloody did Alistair. Doing it now, in fact.” Crowley grinned and slid his hand up until he found an ankle to curl it around whilst Alistair somehow found an even deeper shade of red that might not have all been down to embarrassment. </p>
<p>“D’you remember my first day? Setting up all the cameras and what-not?” Crowley asked.</p>
<p>Alistair nodded. “You had that brightly coloured jacket on. The same one you were wearing yesterday.” He said wistfully. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I- wait.” Crowley twisted and sat up a bit, looking at Alistair over his sunglasses. “The jacket? Really? My ‘fuck shit up’ jacket? Huh. Duly noted. Anyway-” </p>
<p>“Stop teasing you fiend. You know full well I find you irresistible in whatever you’re wearing. Or not, in some cases.” Alistair gently tucked the hair back away from Crowley's face as he resettled, then trailed his fingers down Crowley's neck and over his chest in a rather teasing manner. </p>
<p>Crowley half-heartedly flapped a hand at Alistair’s to shoo it away. “Stop distracting me when I’m telling you about my erection-” </p>
<p>“What erection?!” Alistair snapped his hand back, looking down at Crowley’s trousers slightly alarmed, then around them again.</p>
<p>“No- ugh. No, I don’t mean now, although it’s a bloody miracle from the way you’ve been carrying on. I mean on my first day working for you, having had to listen to what I was pretty sure at the time was someone getting sucked off in the dining room, and discovering it was you! When you came out I looked so flustered because I was trying to hide the fact that I had a raging hard-on. I fucking love the noises you make. And then the lunch… Jesus.” Crowley groaned, dragging his hands down his face before prodding Alistair lightly. “Anyway. You’re a menace. My point was... what were we talking about? Oh yes, I fantasised about you almost constantly if you must know. It only got worse after we…”</p>
<p>“We made love?” Alistair supplied.</p>
<p>“Wh- yeah alright, that’s probably fair.” Crowley grumbled. “Anyways, I managed to hold out on actually tossing off to the thought of you until The Ritz and that sodding suit. Ozwald should put warnings on his suits. Damn good showers in The Ritz as well. Space for two. We should go back one d- mmmmpf!”</p>
<p>Alistair removed the finger he’d placed over Crowley’s mouth to shush him. </p>
<p>“How very noble of you. I feel honoured. Now do shut up and pass the cheese.”</p>
<p>“Oh I see, I’m just your servant now then? Been demoted from bodyguard to servant?” Crowley teased as he fumbled around before handing over the wedge of cheddar. </p>
<p>“Well I must say you are doing a terrible job of it, my dear. I’m not sure why I hired you at all, I don’t even like you.” Alistair replied, grinning as he cut off a chunk.</p>
<p>“You dooooooo.” Crowley wriggled so he could look up at Alistair easier. </p>
<p>Alistair looked him over fondly, almost half of him curled in Alistair's lap now, and brought one hand down to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair, relishing the longer length.</p>
<p>“Oh, my wily demon, ‘like’ doesn’t even begin to cover the depth of what I feel for you.” He said softly. “And now I’ve caught up with you I’m not going anywhere.” He wiggled the ankle that Crowley still had a hand around, and popped the chunk of cheese into his mouth, closing his eyes with a small moan. </p>
<p>“Ngk! Argh. Love you too, Angel. I s’pose.” Crowley said, nuzzling Alistair’s leg.</p>
<p>“Oh sweetheart, you know you pretend to be so grumpy but really you’re-”</p>
<p>Crowley’s head snapped around to glare at him. “NO. Nope. Nu-uh. Don’t you dare.”</p>
<p>“But you are, dearest-” Alistair grinned</p>
<p>“Stop it!”</p>
<p>“You’re swee-”</p>
<p>“Right.” Crowley growled as he jumped up towards Alistair who squealed before he locked their lips together to stop the ridiculous compliments. Just as Alistair started to get more insistent he pulled back. </p>
<p>“Last time I take you on a picnic!” He threatened, settling back into Alistair’s lap. Alistair merely pouted at the loss of the kiss. He consoled himself by booping Crowley's nose. </p>
<p>“Nice.” He said firmly. </p>
<p>“You’re still a bastard.” Crowley grumbled back, but he was smiling again. </p>
<p>All in all, it was a perfect day. And there would be rather more than seven of them to follow. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I just couldn't resist one more little set back. I'm not even sorry. These two were getting too many ideas about cheesy, stereotypical running-into-each-others-arms and as writer, I had to exert some semblance of control. </p>
<p>Now I'm going to say this here, because I'm not sure I'll be able to find the words next time, but...</p>
<p>Thank you. </p>
<p>To all of you coming back and reading this week after week, for all the kudos, for all the comments that have had me grinning like an idiot, to everyone who shared it and got excited about it, for all of it. Thank you. These two adorable fools have taken over my life for quite some time now, so I've loved seeing you all fall for them the way I have. Who knew my idle musing about what would be the most emotionally painful situation to put Crowley in, would spawn this? </p>
<p>Oh, and one last confession. All the music I mention in this (bar the four classical pieces) is either from the eighties, or by Whitney Houston. Because I took one look at the film and assumed it came out in the eighties. It was only after I posted the first chapter and saw the date up there in the tags that I realised, and by then it was too late. </p>
<p>Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go sleep for a week, and remind my family what I look like...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Happily Ever After</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I feel like there should be a content warning for the level of fluff you are about to endure. Despite having started this fic as a way of writing lots of Crowley angst, apparently I just want to see him happy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>Later that day…</em> </b>
</p><p>The low burble of a classic engine caught Crowley’s attention as they ambled back down the lane towards the pub. He and Alistair were wandering slowly back, Crowley swinging the picnic basket in one hand and clasping Alistair’s in the other. The Bentley got to the pub slightly ahead of them and Pepper stopped, got out, and leant against the car to watch the two men approach. </p><p>Pepper was overjoyed to see the two of them walking hand in hand, and she took a quick photo to send to the others. Crowley was looking a bit different with longer hair, softer and more relaxed, although that could just be because he wasn't trying to hold back any more. His hair was just brushing his shoulders, the soft curls swaying as he walked. The ridiculous sunglasses were still firmly in place, meaning it was impossible to tell exactly where he was looking. As they drew closer, Crowley raised his head in her direction </p><p>“Well hello gorgeous. I’ve missed you.” Crowley crooned, raising Pepper’s eyebrows. </p><p>“I… missed you too, I guess.” She responded, entirely unprepared for whatever <em> that </em>was. </p><p>“... I was talking to the Bentley, but I suppose I missed you as well, little Valkyrie.” Crowley grinned. </p><p>Pepper laughed. “Oh fuck off, you arse. Now. I am only going to do this the once, and I will absolutely deny it if you ever bring it up.” She said sternly as she advanced on Crowley. She threw her arms around him in a tight hug. </p><p>“Thank you for saving Alistair, and I'm glad you didn’t die in the process.” She said quietly, her face pressed into his chest. Crowley let go of Alistair and hugged her back with one arm, resting his chin on her head before she pulled away, blinking at whatever had got into her eyes. Pesky dust. She sniffed.</p><p>“Everyone says hi, by the way. Except Newt. He’s possibly even more terrified of you, although I have no idea why.” They both grinned, and Pepper turned to Alistair. “Right! What’s the plan? We have to be back by tomorrow for that book thingy, or incur the wrath of Michael, and I’m under strict instructions to bring this one if I ever want Tracy’s pancakes again.” She said, gesturing at Crowley. </p><p>Alistair turned to look at Crowley with a worried expression. “Oh blast, I completely forgot! Well, it’s your decision dear. I know everyone would love to see you, but I appreciate this is all rather fast.” He said, hands returning to worrying each other in front of his torso. </p><p>Crowley wasn’t used to the idea of people wanting just his company. It was a novel concept, and one he couldn’t think too hard about in front of Pepper or he’d never hear the end of it. He tried to remember what he had originally planned for the next few days, and decided it probably wasn’t that important. </p><p>“Well… can’t deprive Pepper of pancakes now, can I? ‘M not a monster.” Crowley scoffed, taking Alistair’s hand again, and Alistair positively glowed. Yes, it may be all very fast, but Crowley liked fast. It left less time for worrying about the small stuff. </p><p>While Crowley threw some clothes in a bag, Pepper played with Dog in the pub garden. She could see Paxton watching her from the doorway, hands in his pockets and frowning slightly. She threw Dog’s ball towards the pub and wandered over. </p><p>“Sorry for stealing him away like this.” She said to Paxton. “But everyone’s missed him.” </p><p>Paxton shrugged. “He’s a grown man, he’s always gone wherever he pleases.” </p><p>Pepper looked out towards the valley. “Alistair mentioned you’ve known Crowley a long time.” She said as she threw Dog’s ball to the other end of the garden again. </p><p>Paxton crossed his arms over his chest as he watched Dog racing down the garden after the ball, weaving in and out of the picnic table legs. “Watched him grow up. He’s a good lad, deep down, as much as he does to try and hide it. Never seen him in such a mess as when he came out of that hospital though. Took him a long time to get back on his feet. That idiot is the closest thing I’ve got to a son, so you can understand if I’m not overly keen to see him like that again.”</p><p>Pepper frowned. </p><p>“They didn’t tell you, did they.” She said. Paxton’s expression didn’t change and Pepper gave a groan of exasperation. “Oh for fuck’s sake. These two are so fucking useless at communicating. Right, the short version is: Alistair never dumped him. That twat Gabriel lied to everyone to separate them, but we only discovered this, like, last week. Pretty obvious it’s a lie now, but we didn’t know any better at the time. Anyway. Soon as the lies unravelled, Alistair tracked Crowley down on the off chance that Crowley doesn’t actually hate him. Which, evidently, he doesn’t. It’d take a major fuck up to come between these two now, and, frankly, we wouldn’t allow it. They’re too damn cute together.”</p><p>Paxton thought it over. “So, you’re saying they’ve both spent a year wanting the same thing, but thinking the other one didn’t.” He said flatly.</p><p>“Yep.” </p><p>Paxton put his hands on his hips and sighed heavily just as Alistair and Crowley appeared behind him. He turned to see them hand in hand again and gazing at each other. Whatever he’d thought of Alistair before, there was no mistaking the look on his face. And to think he put up with all those months of Crowley’s mischief… </p><p>Alistair looked around from where he was making gooey eyes at Crowley, to see Paxton with his hand held out towards him. He put his bag down and took it, hoping that the slight crush as he shook it was nothing more than Paxton being used to hauling kegs around. </p><p>“Well, Alistair, I hope you know what you’ve got yourself into. Now get him out of here before the regulars turn up. Your little display yesterday did not go unnoticed, and neither did your absence from the bar last night, so unless you want hours of terrible jokes and inappropriate questions, I suggest you get going.” Alistair blushed as Paxton dropped his hand and turned to Crowley, crossing his arms over his chest. Pepper was trying not to laugh from the doorway behind him. </p><p>“And you. I have been waiting a long time to give you this advice, Anthony. And I hope I only have to say this once.” He looked at Crowley very seriously, and put a hand on his shoulder. Crowley’s face was very carefully blank around his sunglasses. </p><p>“Don’t fuck this up.” </p><p>And with a pat that nearly buckled Crowley’s knees, Paxton strode off down the corridor and into the pub, with Dog trotting after him, ball in his jaws. </p><p>Crowley scowled, and muttered something that sounded almost, but not quite, like what Paxton had said. </p><p>“I heard that! And we both know you won’t!” Paxton called. </p><p>Before he could formulate a cutting remark on Paxton’s age and hearing abilities, Crowley caught Alistair looking at him fondly and suddenly it didn’t matter any more. </p><p>“Let’s go home, love.” Alistair said. Just like that. Like it was no big thing, going home. Together. <em> Bastard. Beautiful, beautiful bastard. </em></p><p>Mercifully, Pepper put the radio on for the drive back up to London. Crowley wasn’t sure he wouldn’t say something completely stupid if he tried to talk now. But he seemed to be getting away with holding Alistair’s hand as he zoned out of the window. </p><p>Thankfully, coming back into that house hadn’t been as daunting as Crowley had expected. Nothing had really changed, and if it weren’t for Tracy letting out an excited squeal and throwing herself at him for a hug that only bordered mildly on inappropriate, it would have felt like he’d never been away. Anathema gave him one of her funny looks, before seeming to come to a decision and sticking out her hand. Newt begrudgingly did the same after the application of an elbow to his ribs, so Crowley switched to a first bump just to see him get tangled up. Michael gave him a nod from the other side of the room, but it was Uriel who caught him out. She came over and offered her hand out to him, looking at him with none of the suspicion and disdain from before. </p><p>“Wasn’t sure you had it in you, Crowley, but you actually did it. You jumped.” He took her hand and shook it, and she didn’t even try to squeeze too hard or anything. “I misjudged you. Twice over. So... sorry for that. Welcome back.”</p><p>Crowley was so stunned he didn’t even manage a sarcastic response. </p><p>Later that evening, all sat around the dining room table with drinks in hand, Crowley was bombarded with stories of everything he’d missed out on in the last year. He nearly wore his voice out recounting the trials and tribulations of rebuilding the cottage whilst also correcting Alistair’s version of what happened the previous day (“He fucking dipped me the sly bastard, and I’ll have you know I fought it all the way!” “That’s a lie, dearest, and you know it. There were eyewitnesses.” “Yeah but they’re on my payroll, Angel, so they’ll say what I want them to say.”). Eventually though, Crowley had to call it a night. Out of the dining room, he headed for the door to the basement on pure muscle memory, his legs carrying him as his mind drifted in preparation for sleep. It was only Alistair’s hand catching his that startled him back to attention. </p><p>“W-huh?”</p><p>“No, love. Not any more. You go this way now.” Alistair said, tugging him gently towards the stairs and up to the master suite.</p><p>Crowley was so drained he just allowed himself to be led upstairs without too much thought. Evening ablutions completed, he was so tired he briefly contemplated sleeping in his trousers rather than fighting them off. It was only Alistair tutting and reaching over to help that swayed his decision. Clothes removed and flung onto the floor, Crowley sank into the mattress and was asleep almost instantly, one arm flung over Alistair. </p><p>The following morning, after the best night’s sleep he’d had in ages, Alistair woke up, rolled over and let out a little yelp of surprise. </p><p>“Good God, Crowley, what are you doing? That’s rather creepy you know.”</p><p>Crowley was laying on his side in the bed, facing Alistair, his eyes wide and staring. Not gazing lovingly, or even looking at him with intent, although both would be welcomed, he was just… staring. </p><p>“Oh my love, you’ve thought yourself into a tangle, haven’t you?” Alistair said softly, smiling at him. Crowley just nodded, a tiny jerk of his head as he continued to stare, unblinking. </p><p>“Wanted this for so long…” He started. Fast only worked if you kept going. </p><p>“And you don’t know what to do now you’ve got it?” Alistair finished. Crowley nodded again. Alistair rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. </p><p>“Yes, it does all suddenly feel very real, doesn’t it? Although I must say I hadn’t imagined waking up next to you would involve being stared at in quite that manner.” He chuckled. </p><p>“You…” Crowley started, before trailing off again. </p><p>“Of course I did, you buffoon. Crowley, this bed never felt too big or too empty until I returned to it after sharing yours. Now you’re finally in it, will you please come here and give that wonderful brain of yours a rest. I know it’s a lot all at once, but we’ll just figure it out as we go along. Together.” Crowley shuffled over and tucked his head lightly into Alistair’s shoulder. Alistair tutted, wrapped his arms around Crowley and drew him into a kiss that left no room for doubt. </p><p>“One day at a time, my love.” Alistair said. </p><p>Unfortunately, Alistair did have some interviews to do that afternoon. The reporters were coming to the house, so Crowley decided to get out of the way while they were there. </p><p>“Gonna… gonna go back and check on my plants for a bit. That OK?” He asked Alistair as they stood in the kitchen, tidying away the remnants of lunch.</p><p>“Of course, love! I’ll be busy for the next few hours at least. You don’t have to ask permission, Crowley, you can come and go as you please. Speaking of which…” Alistair bustled off to the utility room, came back and pressed something into Crowley’s hand. Crowley looked down at the key in his palm in open mouthed surprise. </p><p>“Really? Are you sure?” He asked, looking back up to Alistair. Alistair gave him a Look. It was the fond exasperation one that Crowley particularly liked. </p><p>“Dearest, I know this is fast again, “ Alistair said, “but frankly, I can’t see any point in you not having a key. I am well aware that you are fully capable of entering this house with or without it, but it will arouse less suspicion from the neighbours this way. So regardless of whether you choose to use it or not...” Alistair gave him a knowing look and Crowley wondered, not for the last time, if Alistair could read his mind because how else could he know he had immediately decided to experiment with keyless entry? “...it’s yours. I don’t ever want you thinking you're not welcome here, ever again.”</p><p>Crowley felt strung out on the tension of all this serious emotion. Something had to give. </p><p>“I give it a week, two tops, before you take this back.” He said with a sly grin. </p><p>“Then you have grossly underestimated me, dear boy, and I look forward to proving you wrong.” Alistair retorted. “Now. While I know I said you were free to come and go as you please, I would advise you be back for tea otherwise Tracy will send Pepper after you. I have a suspicion she is going to ‘mother hen’ you for a bit so be prepared.”</p><p>Crowley put his head in his free hand. He wasn’t used to people wanting him around like this. He was well and truly out of his depth and it was scary but sort of wonderful at the same time. <em> Don’t fuck this up, </em>Paxton’s voice repeated inside his head. </p><p>“Duly noted, Angel.” He said, giving Alistair a kiss on the cheek before heading for the door. “Ciao!”</p><p>“Arrivederci, darling.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>One month later…</em> </b>
</p><p>Alistair and Pepper finally arrived at the pub, and walked in to find Crowley and Paxton giggling in the corner, the rest of the pub filling up around them.</p><p>“What have you done now?” Alistair asked over Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley nearly fell off his bar stool. </p><p>“What the hell, Paxton? Couldn’t you warn me?!” He grumbled. </p><p>“Why on Earth would I do that? Hello Alistair, hi Pepper.” Paxton smiled at them both as he drifted off towards the other end of the bar. Pepper followed.</p><p>“Show me.” Alistair said, coming around to stand in front of him and holding out his hand. Crowley tucked his phone close to his chest and glared. “Fine. Tell me then.”</p><p>“Before you go all moral high ground on me, Angel, this was not my idea, OK?” Crowley said, and Alistair just looked at him. He’d discovered just how useful silences could be when Crowley felt the need to fill them. </p><p>“So I found out which prison old Gabe is in, and it turns out I know one of the guards there, from… actually, you don’t want to know where from.” More silence, but with slightly raised eyebrows. “...And he’s been keeping me updated with how the wank stain is getting on. Can we just say he’s not getting the treatment he thinks he deserves and leave it at that?” </p><p>Alistair sat down on the stool next to him and gave him a stern look. </p><p>“Crowley, you’re not paying someone to harass him, are you?!” He hissed. </p><p>“No! I’m not stupid enough to do anything so traceable, c’mon, Angel!” Crowley was mildly offended. Not only would he have made sure it wasn’t traceable, but he’d have gone a damn sight further than just harassment for the duration of Gabriel's thirty year, life sentence. </p><p>“Well, good. It would be a frightful waste of money, seeing as they're doing it for free. Oh, thank you Paxton.” Alistair said as Paxton placed a gin and tonic down in front of him. </p><p>“Wait, what?!” Crowley spluttered into his pint.</p><p>“I was thanking Paxton here for the drink, Crowley. Basic manners, as I’m sure you’d know if you ever bothered with them.”</p><p>“No, no, back up. What do you mean they’re harassing Gabriel for free?” Crowley saw Paxton’s movements slow as he listened.</p><p>“I mean dearest, that there is very little to do in prison so the library is well used, and, frankly, a little tired. I had some spare books that I thought they might enjoy, and it turns out quite a few of the inmates are fans. I may have arranged for some signed copies to work their way in amongst the wider donation with the help of a very polite, young guard by the name of Stanley, and once the inmates worked out who Gabriel was, and, what with his already sterling reputation thanks to his unparalleled social skills, well I’m rather afraid they took some remarkable initiative. Stanley will ensure it doesn’t get too out of hand. We wouldn’t want Gabriel to miss his new friends if he had to be placed in isolation, now, would we?” Alistair’s eyes were doing that crinkly thing again, and Crowley was vaguely aware of Paxton’s shoulders moving in a way that looked suspiciously like laughter. </p><p>“You… you utter bastard... That’s brilliant... I’ve been trying to work out how to get to him for weeks! How did you get hold of one of the guards?” Crowley asked, and oh he thought he’d never love Alistair more than he already did but he was being proved wrong yet again. </p><p>“Oh, you know. I live in Soho, I hear things. I hear that prisons are very interested in improving the literacy rates amongst their inmates, for example. A request came in from Mr. Narker, and-”</p><p>“Narker?!” Crowley nearly leapt off the barstool again. “His first name is <em> Stanley </em>?! Shit, Angel, how did you get Spike to tell you his real name? I don’t even think his girlfriend knows… Oh but I’m going to rip him to shreds for that. He’s been keeping me updated and hasn’t mentioned you once, the sneaky fucker.” Crowley turned to his phone. “I'll give him fucking 'Stanley'!” He muttered angrily, only stopping his composure of a torrent of text based chastising when a neatly manicured hand was placed over it, obscuring it from view. </p><p>“You shall do no such thing. Stanley has been nothing but polite and helpful, and I will not have you berate him for it.” Crowley looked at Alistair with his best begging eyes. He even took the sunglasses off so Alistair could see them. </p><p>Alistair relented. He always did. “Oh alright. A bit of light teasing won’t hurt. I suppose you may drop a ‘Stanley’ or two into conversation. He’s never mentioned you, although he must know we’re together so I suppose he deserves some retribution for that at least. Go easy on him, dearest, he may still prove useful. ”</p><p>Just then Pepper burst out laughing from the other end of the bar and Crowley looked up to see her looking his way as she gasped for breath. Paxton was next to her, looking entirely too innocent as he wiped down a glass. Crowley groaned aloud. </p><p>“Paxton! What lies have you told her this time?!” He yelled across the bar. Pepper burst into laughter again. </p><p>“That you’re perfectly capable of handling excessive horsepower, as long as it doesn’t involve any actual horses!” She gasped out around her laughter. </p><p>“PAXTON! You git, you swore you’d never tell anyone about that incident!” Crowley yelled. But he knew it was pointless to actually get mad. It had been terrifying at first to have all his history laid out like this, far more than some of the things blanked out in his records. But he’d learned it didn’t seem to matter how many embarrassing stories Paxton divulged, Pepper never treated him any differently. And Alistair may have rolled his eyes a few times, but he still kissed him like he was something precious. It was… weird. Being known like this, and still being accepted. It made him feel like he belonged. Like he wasn’t quite so worthless after all. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A few days later, after a <em> very </em> pleasurable lie-in that almost required another sleep to recover from, Alistair insisted on Crowley keeping his eyes shut as they came downstairs in search of breakfast. </p><p>“You want me to walk down three flights of stairs with my eyes shut…” Crowley said, very unsure.</p><p>“If you’re going to complain then I could carry you?” Alistair offered. </p><p>“Only if you’re going to carry me right back into that bed. You <em> know </em> what it does to me when you do that.”</p><p>Alistair just grinned. “OK, I’ll carry you back up later. But for now, eyes shut. Understood? I’ll guide you.”</p><p>They made it to the bottom without any incidents, and Alistair insisted on putting his hands over Crowley’s eyes as he led him to the kitchen. Crowley could hear that there were people in there, trying to be very quiet. He didn’t like this one little bit, but he trusted Alistair, and if it made his Angel happy, he would go along with whatever this ridiculousness was. </p><p>Then Alistair pulled his hands away and Crowley opened his eyes just in time to see Pepper, Tracy and Anathema all yell ‘Happy Birthday!’ at the tops of their voices from either side of the kitchen island. Michael, Newt, and Uriel were stood behind it, and on top… on top of the island was a cake. A birthday cake. Dark blue and mirror glazed, with white speckles so it looked like the night sky. They’d even put a candle on it, which Tracy was now lighting. They all looked so pleased with themselves, and Crowley turned to find Alistair beaming at him as well. </p><p>
  <em> Nope. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Can’t do this.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Not in front of Pepper.  </em>
</p><p>“I’m going to fucking kill Paxton.” Crowley hissed as he turned on his heels and stormed out of the kitchen. He got as far as the hallway before the momentum ran out. Alistair came around to stand in front of him and Crowley tried to dry his face on his sleeve. He couldn’t drag his gaze up from the floor. </p><p>“Oh, darling. Oh, I’m sorry. Are those sad tears?” Alistair asked gently, bringing a hand up to wipe the moisture on Crowley’s cheek with his thumb. Crowley shook his head, a small, jerky movement, barely there if you weren’t looking. </p><p>“Sweetheart, did you honestly think we would just let your birthday go by unnoticed?” Alistair asked, getting a small shrug in return. Alistair stepped over to the hall table, returning with Crowley’s sunglasses. Crowley put them on, and immediately stood straighter. </p><p>“There now, do you want to try again? Because I, for one, was rather looking forward to cake for breakfast, and we can’t cut it until you blow out the candle and make your wish.” Alistair said. </p><p>“Should’ve known you’d use any old excuse to eat cake at silly times of day.” Crowley teased, giving Alistair a smile that was only slightly wobbly. </p><p>“I find one never needs an excuse for cake.” Alistair grinned back. He put out his hand and Crowley took it, allowing himself to be led back into the kitchen. </p><p>Crowley blew out his candle and made his wish. They all had cake for breakfast, and Crowley had to turn the noise he made when they brought out presents into a coughing sort of laugh. </p><p>“What did you wish for?” Alistair whispered later, when they were tucked up in bed again, Crowley wrapped around Alistair in a relaxed, boozy haze. </p><p>“That I’ll get to keep you all.” Crowley mumbled, half asleep. “And that Pepper didn’t see me cry over a cake.”</p><p>And what could Alistair do after that, but hold him tightly and stroke his hair until he fell asleep?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Six months later…</em> </b>
</p><p>Not long after Crowley’s birthday, Michael surprised Alistair by handing in her notice. She’d already lined up someone that she thought he would get on with though, and Harriet turned out to be a perfect fit. She balanced charm and charisma with a sharp wit, and Crowley took to her instantly. She recognised his wild imagination and welcomed the late night emails that always started with 'what if...?'. </p><p>Uriel had also decided that it was time to move on to another assignment as it was clear she was no longer needed. With Alistair’s glowing reference and Crowley’s contacts they ensured she would have success wherever she chose to go. She found her niche in the fashion world, providing security backstage for the models at shows and photoshoots. </p><p>The house build had been ramping up in the face of an impending British winter, and the last phase went surprisingly fast. The combination of Crowley’s yells and glares tag teamed perfectly with Alistair’s unyielding reasonableness and pointed silences to spur the workforce on, so now Crowley and Alistair stood in the newly gravelled driveway in the cold November drizzle, arms wrapped around each other and looking up at a finished house. Crowley still had to organise getting most of the furniture and his plants down from Mayfair (the desk alone was going to need a specialist lorry), but the building and decorating was done. It was nearly a home. Alistair had travelled back and forth from London over the last few months, and they’d got a mattress which they’d put on the floor in the master bedroom as a temporary measure until Crowley’s very expensive bed could be shipped. Crowley still ended up at the pub most nights when Alistair was in London, and occasionally even slept there when he was too tired to stumble back to the house in the dark, but now… well.</p><p>Crowley looked over at Alistair with a mischievous grin on his face, and before Alistair could get further than opening his mouth to ask what daft idea he’d got into his head this time, Crowley swept him up into his arms and carried him across the threshold. Alistair yelped, then wrapped his arms around Crowley’s neck as he was carried into the entrance hall. Crowley set him gently down just inside as they took off their coats, laughing, and Alistair dragged him in for a kiss. </p><p>“Good Lord, Crowley! Well, I suppose after that the next step is the christening…” He said as he pulled away. Crowley stopped and looked at him slightly confused and mildly panicky.</p><p>“Christening?” He said, his voice only slightly higher pitch than normal, and Alistair took in his unshielded gaze, a sight he was treated to more often now that Crowley had stopped wearing his blasted sunglasses so much. </p><p>“Mmmm-hmmm.” Alistair said, his hands sliding around Crowley’s waist as his gaze slid upwards to roughly where the mattress was upstairs. “Thought we might let the trouser snake out for a bit now everyone’s left…” He said squeezing Crowley’s hip slightly.</p><p>“Trou… Who taught… ugh. You mean my tattoo, don’t you.” Crowley said with a groan. </p><p>“Why of course dear, whatever else could I be referring to?” Alistair said, feigning innocence and being wholeheartedly betrayed by the expression on his face. </p><p>Crowley grunted, then gently walked Alistair backwards into the wall. Crowley leaned in, trapping Alistair, his face tantalisingly close to his neck. His breath was teasing the sensitive skin there as he spoke, low and menacing. </p><p>“You’ve got five minutes to get somewhere more comfortable, Angel, before I release the beast. Because as tempting as it is to ravish you right here on the stairs,” Crowley paused as a shudder of arousal went through him at the thought of that, “you’re going to want a soft surface for what I have in mind.” He nibbled lightly on Alistair’s ear as he untied the uniformly tartan bow tie, before drawing back, his lips lightly grazing Alistair’s cheekbone as he went past. Crowley took in the pink flush growing on Alistair’s face, the wide blown pupils, then he stepped back to lean on the wall opposite him, ankles and arms folded. He watched Alistair, intent dark in his eyes and a predatory smirk on his face. </p><p>Alistair forgot how his knees worked. </p><p>“Cheat…” He breathed.</p><p>Crowley glanced down at his rather complicated watch. “Four and a half minutes now.” He said with a low rumble. </p><p>Alistair gulped, cleared his throat and pulled himself together. He looked squarely at Crowley before removing his jacket, holding it up to show him, and dropping it, crumpled, on the floor. No waistcoat today, so the suspenders were on full display. Alistair raised one eyebrow in challenge, then turned towards the stairs. Crowley watched him, unblinking, utterly transfixed. He paused at the bottom step, pulled the bowtie out from under his collar and glanced back as he hung it over the end of the bannister. Crowley was still watching him intently, but the smirk had now fallen off of his face and landed on Alistair’s. Crowley watched as Alistair climbed slowly up the stairs, slipping one side of the suspenders off to hang from his elbow and unbuttoning his shirt. </p><p>“How long now?” He called from the top step. </p><p>“Three minutes…” Crowley croaked. </p><p>“Well don’t be too long dearest, else I shall have to get started without you.”</p><p>Crowley cursed his stupid tight trousers, wondering when he was ever going to learn and deciding never sounded about right. </p><p>At one minute to go he was caving. Well… He’d said five minutes until he ‘released the beast’ so… </p><p>“Sod it.” He muttered, and headed up the stairs as fast as his protesting anatomy would allow, to follow the trail of wantonly abandoned clothing. He got to the bedroom door, pushed it open and entered with his most wiggly saunter.</p><p>“Time’s up…” He said to an empty mattress. </p><p>“Wahoo.” Came a very smug murmur from behind him as Alistair grabbed him from behind, pushing him off balance until they hit the wall on the other side of the room. Crowley nearly flipped him, but he’d managed to get a handle on his instincts where Alistair was concerned these days. A mixture of expecting the unexpected all the time, and plenty of reward when he managed not to react with reflexive violence. </p><p>“You know my dear, I hear they call this one ‘The Bodyguard’.” Alistair said as he pinned Crowley to the newly painted plaster, kissing the back of his neck. “How do you feel about a little role reversal?”</p><p>Crowley gave up. He never won this game. Didn’t exactly lose it either though… </p><p>“Darling?” Alistair asked later, as they were curled up on the mattress in a very cosy post coital tangle. “Do you think we can get everything down here in time for Christmas? It would be lovely to celebrate it here, don’t you think?” </p><p>No. No he had not. Crowley hadn’t thought about Christmas at all. But he was about to. </p><p>“Yeah. Don’t see why not.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Six weeks later… </em> </b>
</p><p>Crowley woke up on Christmas morning to the smell of festive spices and the sound of carols playing through the house’s sound system. For a moment he thought he was still asleep, but the press of a full bladder removed that doubt fairly quickly. He shuffled and wriggled his way out of the centre of the bed, and swung his legs over the edge to sit up. Blinking his eyes open and stretching, he stopped abruptly when his brain caught up with what his eyes had seen draped over a chair in front of him. </p><p>It was bright, it was garish, it was knitted, and it was hideous. It was also his size, and, as Crowley ventured closer to the offending jumper, he began to realise just how offensive it truly was. He was pretty sure none of the carols filtering up from downstairs mentioned Santa doing <em> that.  </em></p><p>Underneath it there seemed to be a large sock. No, wait, that was… Crowley took a deep, slow breath. The bastard had done him a stocking, of all things.</p><p>As he picked it up to look at it (and perhaps engage in a bit of sprotting) the bastard in question walked quietly up behind Crowley and slipped his arms around his waist. </p><p>“Checking for coal?” Alistair chuckled. “Merry Christmas, darling. Come on, coffee’s on downstairs.” </p><p>“Gimme a minute and I’ll be down, yeh?” Crowley replied and Alistair slipped away with a parting kiss to his shoulder. </p><p>Crowley stared at the stocking for a few minutes more, before setting it carefully aside to don the atrocious Christmas jumper. He pulled on some comfy, black leggings, dealt with his bladder, and then headed downstairs, swinging the stocking as he went. </p><p>Alistair looked up as a large parcel wrapped in glittery paper was deposited in his lap. The living room had been festooned with bright, garish decorations and was almost lost to the enormous tree in the corner. It was a hodgepodge of baubles and lights, and the pine smell was mixing with the woodsmoke of the log burner wonderfully. Alistair, it turned out, had decades worth of Christmas decorations that didn’t particularly match, but he loved them all, so up they all went. Crowley’s one contribution was the angel at the top of the tree that he’d had made to look like Alistair. It was holding a flaming pen, and he was very proud of it. </p><p>“Glittery paper, dear, really?” Alistair said with a well practiced sigh. “You are aware you live here too? You can’t complain about any glitter you find for the next few months at least.” </p><p>“Just open it.” Crowley said, still clutching his stocking and eyeing the pile under the tree warily. It was considerably bigger than the last time he looked, and he was starting to feel like maybe he should have bought more. </p><p>“They’re not all for you.” Alistair said as he unpicked the tape holding the paper together. “So you can put that worrying face away. Oh!” Alistair gasped as he pulled the paper back. </p><p>“Oh, Crowley! Oh dearest this is… these are… oh good Lord, first editions as well. Oh my love, you really shouldn’t have.” He gushed as he held up the first of the series of original Paddington books that were in the parcel. </p><p>“Nonsense, Angel. I know you like Winnie the Turd, and couldn’t see these anywhere. You know you want them. I know you want them. Just take them without a fuss, will you?” Crowley grumbled. Alistair gave him the same look he gave him every time he mangled poor Winnie’s rather unfortunate name. </p><p>“On one condition, dearest.” Alistair said, and Crowley narrowed his eyes at him. He’d learnt that conditions could be dangerous, and required scrutiny when they involved a writer. Especially if he was a bit of a bastard. </p><p>"Oh?" He asked. </p><p>“Read them to me? With all the voices, of course.” </p><p>As new Christmas traditions go, Crowley thought, it could be a lot worse. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Three months later… </em> </b>
</p><p>Alistair was worried. Crowley had grown increasingly distant lately. They had been splitting their time between Soho and Fulking while Alistair continued with the signing events and appearances Harriet lined up for him, and Crowley got the new house and garden up and running. Alistair thought it had been working. But Crowley had stopped responding to texts like he used to, and often didn’t answer the phone, or when he did, he was very short and to the point. At first Alistair thought perhaps Crowley was just busy, then he thought it was something he’d done, but Crowley was as loving and attentive as ever when they were together, he just seemed to be closing himself off and the slightest thing sent him withdrawing into his shell. </p><p>One weekend, with Crowley up in London, Alistair had snapped at him over something silly, and Crowley had fallen over himself to gain forgiveness, practically begging. Alistair had been taken aback at his disproportionate response and ended up spending the evening sat under a very clingy, and very quiet, shadow of the usually vibrant man he loved. </p><p>Later that night, it got worse however. </p><p>Alistair was woken by thrashing arms and muffled cries, then all of a sudden Crowley threw himself out of the bed, falling to the floor in a crash of flailing limbs and tangled duvet. Alistair sat up in alarm as it all went quiet, then he heard a sob. He leant over the side of the bed, found Crowley’s shoulder and placed a hand on it. </p><p>“Darling, are you-”</p><p>Crowley flinched at the touch and spun his head around to see Alistair’s face leaning over the edge of the mattress, his sleep-muddled curls gently backlit and giving him that halo that Crowley knew would forever take his breath away. He frantically fought his way out of the tangled duvet, scrambled back on to the bed, and threw himself into Alistair’s lap, wrapping arms and legs around him and holding on for dear life, his chin on Alistair’s shoulder. </p><p>Alistair wrapped his arms around him, held him with that gentle pressure that was just slightly more than a hug that seemed to calm him, and waited. After a couple more sobs and an array of sniffles, Crowley finally spoke. </p><p>“You’re… you’re still here…” He mumbled, his voice cracked and raw. </p><p>Whatever Alistair had been expecting, it wasn’t that. </p><p>“Of course, Crowley, darling, wherever else would I be?” He murmured back, his voice pitched low and soothing. </p><p>“Thought I… You were… Dreamt I lost you. Thought you… you left…” He mumbled.</p><p>Alistair tightened one arm to tip them over briefly so he could recover the duvet from halfway off the bed and wrap it around them both.</p><p>“And why would I want to leave, when I have everything I want right here?” Alistair said, stroking the back of Crowley’s neck. </p><p>“‘Cause… ‘cause it’s too good. You’re too good. Doesn’t last.” Crowley mumbled into his shoulder again, sounding less sure as the last dregs of the sleep he’d been so rudely torn from, dropped away. “Stuff this good never happens to me. I always get left behind eventually.” Crowley curled tighter around Alistair. </p><p>“Crowley, if you recall, I was the one who came after you. Repeatedly, if I’m going to be honest. And my only regret is that I didn’t do it sooner.” Alistair had a very good idea of where this fear came from, and suddenly his recent behaviour made a lot more sense. </p><p>“Yeah, but… you’ll get fed up with me in the end. Bored with me… my....” Crowley mumbled so quietly Alistair barely heard it. Crowley was shaking slightly, a fragile tremble of a man that had no reason to be so, and Alistair knew it. </p><p>“Crowley. How many times have I read Hamlet? Or Oscar Wilde? Or Wodehouse?”</p><p>Crowley peeled himself away slightly and looked at Alistair in confusion. </p><p>“Whu? Loads…”</p><p>“Oh… there you are...” Alistair smiled. A soft, fond expression that was just for Crowley, as he gently tucked one of his stray curls behind his ear before turning serious again. “Now, my love. Does that strike you as the behaviour of someone who gets bored easily?” Crowley just looked at him with something like the start of hope in his eyes. “I can’t pretend I won’t ever get fed up with you, we’re both human. But if you think that’s going to be enough to get rid of me then you have grievously underestimated how stubborn I can be when it comes to things I like. Why do you think I gave up on the bookshop?” Crowley was still silent, amber eyes wide and looking at him in the glow of the streetlights outside, his bottom lip held between his teeth as if it might get all wobbly if he let it go. </p><p>“Dearest, I love you. There are many things I love you because of, and a few that I love you in spite of, and sometimes they’re somehow the same blasted thing because you’re impossible and that’s what love is.” Crowley looked like he might cry, but Alistair wasn’t done. “I spent weeks waiting for us to be able to be together, I sat in a hospital room for seven days straight hoping for you to wake up so I could tell you I love you, I spent a <em> year </em> thinking you hated me only to find out it was a <em> lie </em> , and I am <em> not </em>giving you up now I’ve finally got you. I’m staying, you hear? You won’t push me away.”</p><p>Crowley couldn’t handle the level of honesty on Alistair's face. He may be highly skilled with anything with a sharp edge, but he was rubbish with emotions and this was too much for him to process. Especially in the middle of the night. He pulled a silly face.</p><p>“Should have guessed you’d be stubborn about it.” He teased. Alistair’s relieved chuckle rumbled deep in his chest where they were pressed together. Low and reassuring, it went a long way to patching up the cracks that had split open recently. </p><p>“Oh dear, did I get too serious again?” Alistair grinned. “Well if I can blame stubbornness, what’s your excuse for not getting bored with me, hmm?”</p><p>“Easy. You’re warm. I get cold a lot.” Crowley said with a smile as he leaned forward and kissed him, a fierce press of lips in search of closeness.</p><p>“I love you Crowley. Always. But please talk to me, my love, keep talking to me. I’ll not have you going off in your head again, Lord knows I do enough of that for both of us. Now, little spoon?” Alistair offered. </p><p>“Little spoon.” Crowley nodded, untangling himself as they lay down and sorted the duvet out again. And as Crowley lay there, Alistair draped over his back, warm and comforting, his reassuring words ringing in Crowley’s ears, he felt the fear and doubt recede. It would be back, but it was fast running out of arguments that he didn’t have answers for, his Angel’s voice in his head beating it back at every turn.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>One month later…</em> </b>
</p><p>Crowley was terrified meeting Alistair’s parents when they came down for Alistair’s birthday, but it turned out he knew quite a lot about apple trees, thanks to the one in the garden, so they bonded over a mutual love of growing. Alistair’s dad was broad, much like Alistair, with truly white hair framing his cheerful face. It became obvious that Alistair’s strength ran in the family, and Crowley would have thought the crushing handshake a deliberate attempt to assert authority were it not for the fact that Alistair’s dad was clearly also where Alistair’s delight in the world came from. The man couldn’t have had a malicious thought if he’d tried. He told Crowley he was welcome on the orchards at any time and Crowley promised to come down for harvest and see how it all worked. He was promptly told that that was an excellent idea, seeing as he’d likely be running it one day judging by Alistair’s disinterest, and the knowledge he’d already demonstrated. </p><p>Alistair’s mum was a tiny slip of a thing, but Crowley could immediately see exactly where Alistair got that steely determination from. She may have looked meek, but somewhere behind her piercing blue eyes there was a force greater than all three men put together. Oh, and Alistair had her smile. She took one look at the way Crowley looked at her boy and immediately decided she would shower him with all the motherly love he had missed out on. Crowley taught her how to throw a knife with devastating accuracy, then spent weeks second guessing that decision until Alistair informed him that if his mother decided she didn’t like him, then a projectile blade was the least of his worries.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>A little over a year later…</em> </b>
</p><p>They’d been splitting their time between Sussex and London fairly successfully. Alistair wrote more down in the quiet countryside, and Crowley held reskilling courses in the capital for people exiting the forces. The flat in Mayfair was sold for an exorbitant amount of money, which Crowley used to buy and fit out a small warehouse in the Docklands for the courses. Crowley built on his good reputation and contacts, and soon his courses had waiting lists. Pepper was initially rankled that she didn’t qualify for them, until Crowley pointed out that the advantage of setting the rules meant he could break them whenever he felt like it. After a while she started assisting him in his classes, in a game they affectionately called 'rescue the maiden'. An encounter with Pepper tended to knock the more cocky squaddies down a peg or two. She still teased Crowley about being a spy. </p><p>Mary and Harriet had worked hard to keep Alistair going. Mary had been privately worried that Crowley would prove too much of a distraction, but it turned out that Alistair was just as good at channeling joy as he was grief, and he was well on his way to putting out another bestseller with the help of his ferocious hurricane of a muse.</p><p>Newt and Anathema were a solid twosome, and she moved out to live with him as he’d flatly refused to live under the same roof as Crowley, even though it was made clear that they were both welcome at any time. Crowley had even been on his best behaviour to make him feel welcome. At least, when Alistair or Anathema were looking. </p><p>Tracy decided it was time to retire, and had moved out to live with Shadwell on the Essex coast for some reason unfathomable to the others, but she taught Crowley all her culinary tricks before she left and he turned out to be rather masterful in the kitchen. Alistair loved to watch him cook as he whizzed around the kitchen with such grace and ease, albeit also with a mess that looked, to the untrained eye, like total chaos. Crowley had a habit of bringing him jars to open, and Alistair particularly loved Crowley’s penchant for feeding him tidbits as he cooked, which he appreciated with the gusto they deserved. Some dinners may have been burned in the process. </p><p>The garden in London finally saw some attention as Crowley got stuck in as soon as the weather had warmed up. A little bit of love and a lot of discipline, and he had it looking like a proper paradise in no time. Between the coaching, the cooking, and both gardens, Crowley didn’t have time to feel restless and he loved it.</p><p>Crowley continued growing out his hair. Partly out of subversive curiosity, but mostly because he loved the way Alistair would absentmindedly run his fingers through it while he was reading in the evenings. Anathema gave him a crash course on the merits of silicone-free hair care, as well as the difference between a French plait and a Dutch plait. Alistair got used to carrying spare hair ties. </p><p>All in all, Alistair and Crowley were stupendously happy spending their days just enjoying each other’s company while they flitted between their Sussex bolt-hole and their Soho residence. Crowley took great pleasure in driving the Bentley whenever possible and Pepper didn’t mind in the least, having taken wholeheartedly to the little Mini. Her main role these days was to watch the Soho house when they were in Sussex, and to pass the time she enrolled on a sociology course. </p><p>One sunny summer’s day, Alistair was in the library down in Sussex (he had been right, it was a wonderful space) re-shelving some books, when Dog came bounding in and dropped something at his feet, looking up at him expectantly as he wagged his tail. </p><p>“DOG! You bastard mongrel! Get back he… ah.” Crowley came bursting through the door and froze as Alistair bent down to pick up the dropped object. It was a small box, much like the one that Crowley had given Alistair his winged cufflinks in oh so long ago, although this one was rather more… square. Alistair opened it out of curiosity, and gasped at the ring nestled inside. It was a narrow gold band, with five, emerald cut, coloured gems set flush into the band. Simple, elegant. He looked up at Crowley who was scowling at Dog from the doorway, love and hope and nerves fighting for control of his features. His clear agitation left him pacing back and forth just inside the room, arms waving as he spoke.</p><p>“Well… uh… I… ngk… Ah fuck it. This is not what I had intended, but the little git here grabbed hold of the box and ran up here before I could stop him. I <em> did </em> have a great plan but I guess we’re just winging it now eh? Thanks for that partner.” He looked rather pointedly at Dog, then up at Alistair. </p><p>“Alistair, I love you. So much. I’ve not had a lot of ‘constant’ in my life, until I met you. I’ve already lost you twice, and I really don’t want to go for the hat-trick. So…” Crowley paused in his pacing and turned to Alistair. “...will you be my constant? Uh... that is... ah fuck’s sake.” He dragged his hands down his face, before spreading them wide with a shrug. </p><p>“Marry me?”</p><p>When Alistair didn’t respond straight away, Crowley’s already jangling nerves went into overdrive. He was about to try and pass it off as a joke, when Alistair let out a little laugh, bent down to the attentive Dog, pulled something out of his pocket and popped it into Dog’s waiting jaws.</p><p>“There you go, you know what to do.” Alistair told Dog, who promptly turned, trotted over to Crowley and sat by his feet, looking up at him with his best begging eyes. </p><p>“Not quite the way I had it planned either my love, although you can’t blame Dog because he’s only doing exactly what I’ve been spending rather a lot of time lately teaching him to do. But as you say, ‘we’re just winging it now’.” Alistair smiled as Crowley bent down and removed a suspiciously identical box from Dog’s mouth. Crowley straightened up, opened it and burst out into relieved laughter. </p><p>Inside was a black metal band, engraved with a snake holding a red cabochon in its mouth. Where the stone caught the light it seemed as if it contained a star, the six rays spreading through the stone. Crowley looked up at Alistair, with a wonderfully soppy expression that he would never admit to being capable of.</p><p>“Just as you said, dearest, although I’d had rather too much constant until you came barrelling into my life and turned it rather gloriously upside-down. I had to live with the thought that I’d lost you once as well, and I have no intention of repeating the experience. Apart from the odd occasion when you’re being particularly insufferable, of course, but that’s why I kept the cufflinks.” He grinned at Crowley who was still gazing at him. “So, my dearest Crowley, I counter your proposal with my own. Will you keep my life as interesting as possible, and will <em> you</em>, marry <em> me?</em>”</p><p>Dog sat there, looking from one to the other where they stood on opposite sides of the room. This was usually the point where he got a treat but neither of them seemed to have remembered. When a whine didn’t get their attention he trotted off in search of someone who appreciated a well executed trick. Paxton was usually a safe bet.</p><p>Alistair’s smile began to falter as Crowley didn’t move. </p><p>“Oh for heaven’s sake come here you ridiculous fool!” He snapped. “Come and put this blessed thing on me!”</p><p>Crowley sprang to life and crossed the room in a few long strides. He took the ring box from Alistair’s hands and dropped to one knee before him.</p><p>“Yes, yes, you’ve already done this bit!” Alistair said, the excitement getting the better of him.</p><p>“Patience, Angel, I’m going to do this properly. Now, Alistair Zira Fell, will you-”</p><p>“Oh of course I will, you preposterous idiot!” Alistair was nearly vibrating with excitement, his left hand held out in anticipation. The smile on his face was so unbelievably radiant that Crowley almost couldn’t look at it. He couldn’t believe just how much his life had changed in the three years since he first met this ridiculous, fussy angel, and as he slid the ring onto his finger, he was thankful for every single day of them. Apart from the one where he got shot and nearly died of course, he could take or leave that one. But all the rest, certainly. </p><p>“What…” Alistair asked warily, looking at his new fiancé who was still grinning at him from one knee and holding his hand. “You’ve got that look. What have you done?”</p><p>The grin on Crowley’s face only widened. </p><p>“Do you like the stones?” He asked far too casually. Alistair looked. There were five stones: pale blue, deepest black, blood red, vibrant green, and a milky white. He looked up at Crowley, none the wiser and with one eyebrow raised. </p><p>“Aquamarine, Neptunite, Garnet, Emerald and Leucite.”</p><p>After a moment’s thought as he looked at the stones, Alistair’s face broke into an expression overflowing with affection. </p><p>“Angel…” he sighed. </p><p>“Do you like it?” Crowley asked, still on one knee, looking up at him with tentative hope in his eyes. “We can change it if you don’t like it, I mean, some of those stones were bloody hard to source, but I’d rather you liked it…” </p><p>“Oh, Crowley! It’s… it’s perfect. It’s beautiful. It’s… oh I don’t even know what to say!”</p><p>Alistair Joined Crowley on his knees and pulled him in for a joyful kiss, grabbing the other ring box as he did so. He pulled back, caught Crowley’s left hand and pushed the black ring triumphantly onto his finger. </p><p>“Oi! I haven’t said yes, yet!” Crowley protested. </p><p>“Were you planning on saying no?” Alistair gave him a dubious look. </p><p>“Well… no… I mean yes, uh I… Ugh. Of course I was going to say yes, you bastard.” Crowley went dramatically limp in Alistair’s arms, letting his arms and head drop back, so Alistair took the opportunity to press soft kisses up his gloriously long neck. Because he could. Whenever he wanted. And it turned out he wanted to a lot. </p><p>“I told you I’d make you mine.” Alistair murmured into his neck.</p><p>“Hnnnnn…” Crowley whined. Again. With the trousers. Every damn time.</p><p>Suddenly Alistair stopped in his advances, nearly dropping Crowley. </p><p>“Oh good Lord, you realise I cannot take your name?!” Alistair said, looking stricken. </p><p>“What? That’s what you worry about? Jesus, Angel, it’s just a name, and I never expected to you change yours anyway. Why does it matter?”</p><p>“Well, there’s already an author by the name of ‘Aleister Crowley’ for a start, and I’d really rather <em> not </em> be associated with <em> him.”  </em></p><p>“Really? What’d he do? Use too many commas? Can we get back to what we were doing?”</p><p>“Of course, darling. Look him up later. My apologies. Now, where were we?” Alistair said, pulling Crowley back in again.</p><p>The announcement was met with joy, and at least one ‘finally’. Pepper turned out to be an excellent best woman for Crowley, taking him, a wary Newt, a surprisingly competitive Paxton, and Alistair’s very excited father karting with her team. The Them maintained that Crowley cheated to win, he just told them they lacked imagination. </p><p>Tracy stepped up for Alistair with a culinary crawl across London with Anathema, Mary, Harriet, and his mother, trying all manner of new gastronomic delights, which, being Tracy, meant a fair few of them were not suitable for discussion in polite company. She assured Alistair that he would thank her later (he didn’t, but both Crowley and Newt did).</p><p>After a quick nip down to the local registry office, they were married at the end of the summer in a simple affair under the apple tree in the garden of their house in Sussex. Paxton walked Crowley down the aisle between the chairs, and never admitted to the tears that were definitely gracing his cheek during the vows. Dog carried the rings and got his treat this time.</p><p>Alistair’s parents supplied cider and apple juice, Oswald provided the suits (and a photographer on the promise that he could use a couple of shots for marketing purposes), Whitney provided the song for the first dance, and Crowley cackled at all the eye rolls.</p><p>At the distinctive sound of jet engines on the horizon, Crowley carefully put down his bit of cake. He knew that sound anywhere, and, sure enough, a few moments later half the party ducked as four Eurofighter Typhoons went screaming past overhead, before splitting off to perform a couple of manoeuvres that they definitely weren't supposed to do, then coming together for one last pass. Crowley stood tall with a huge grin and saluted as his old squadron mates buzzed low enough for him to see their faces. But, being as he was no longer active, he used just the one finger. Pepper and Paxton were watching on, looking decidedly smug. Apparently they’d spent the week prior warning the whole village they were coming, and were feeling exceptionally pleased with themselves. Unfortunately, Alistair had apparently not been amongst those warned. Crowley delighted in licking the icing off his nose. </p><p>Towards the end of the night the two new husbands stole away with their champagne and went to sit on Eric’s bench. Alistair tucked himself into his usual spot pressed up against Crowley's side, his long arm around Alistair's shoulders, and they sat for a while, just listening to the sounds of nature all around them, taking it all in. </p><p>“Wassat bird then?” Crowley asked eventually. “Really going for it.”</p><p>Alistair cocked his head to listen for a moment. “A nightingale, dearest.” He concluded as he took a sip of his champagne. “You know, I suppose I have to be grateful to Gabriel really.” He said as they looked out over the valley. </p><p>“Hmph.” Was Crowley’s response to that name. He was still angry that he and the no-longer-Lord Beelzebub had managed to get their sentences shortened ‘for good behaviour’ but that’s what comes of having political allies, he supposed. At least Hastur was in a place where that was never an option.  </p><p>“Well I do, husband dearest. If it wasn’t for him, we never would have met.”</p><p>“Yeah, alright.” Crowley grumbled into his champagne flute as he hid the fluster from being called ‘husband’. “S’pose.”</p><p>“It’s all worked out for the best though. Just imagine how awful it might have been if you’d been at all professional about your ‘rules’…” Alistair bit back his grin.</p><p>Crowley immediately thought of several ways in which he didn’t stand a chance against Alistair’s determination and had been doomed from the start.</p><p>“Eeeeeeyyh… Point taken.”</p><p>“Well, my love, you have saved my life, and given me the world. Thank you.” Alistair said. Crowley looked at him, fighting back the impulse to reject the gratitude. </p><p>“In that case Angel... to the world…” Crowley said, holding up his champagne flute for a toast. </p><p>Alistair looked up at him, face all soft focus and so blissfully happy he seemed to be glowing, and chinked their glasses together. </p><p>“To the world.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And so we end, as we began, in a garden. </p><p>Arrivederci peeps, and thank you again for all the love along the way on this.</p><p>I'll see you soon for the next adventure.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you think I've missed any tags please let me know!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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